Because of Houdini
by wave obscura
Summary: *NOW COMPLETE* Dean was born with cystic fibrosis, a chronic illness of the lungs. Sam struggles with juggling two lives. Something's killing people at Stanford. Sick!Dean, WIP.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. **

A/N: Based on a prompt for the Dean Focused Hurt/Comfort Meme on LJ. Title is from the poem "Why?" by Bob Flanagan, an artist who had CF (google him... he's a fascinating fellow).

Because of Houdini

by wave obscura

Part One

Why did he run?

It was much more than the guns and knives and the crossbows and dripping fangs and moaning heartbroken dead and the Saving People, Hunting Things. It was the pills bottles, the dungeon-like contraptions, the mucus, the terrible stomachaches and the all-night coughing, the loud buzzing machines and the infections and the play-nice-and-quiet-Sammy-because-your-brother-isn't-feeling-well.

If he closes his eyes he can still smell it, Dean's tumultuous, rotten stomach, the sticky fluid that flowed ceaselessly from his thickening lungs. He can still see his brother silhouetted against the windows of black motel rooms, hunched and retching over a Styrofoam cup.

Sammy hated those cups more than anything, and not just because of how nauseating it was to watch his brother hack up hot smelly mucus three or four times a day. He hated it because he knew that sooner or later it wouldn't be enough.

Sooner or later Dean would drown in his own lungs. Slow.

Why did he run?

Part of it was the jarring disappearance of his willful ignorance about what was wrong with Dean; the assumption that one of these days his brother would be able to cough all the fluid out and it wouldn't come back. That the last lung infection was the last lung infection. That Dad would find a healer. That Dean would somehow cope forever.

It was Dean, actually, who finally told Sam the truth.

"Sammy," Dean said, "I wanna talk to you about something."

Sam didn't even look away from the television. "What?"

He was sixteen then and so he didn't really give a fuck what Dean wanted to talk about. Dean was just a burden and a nuisance and kept him from making any friends because "my dad is gone and I have to freakin' babysit my _older_ brother..."

Dean cleared his throat and coughed a little, which turned into a torrential cough, which dislodged some of the gunk, which meant he had to reach for his disgusting spit cup and choke into it for a minute before he could go on.

Sam hated The Cough, the one that sounded so monstrous coming from such a young person's mouth that it made people gawk and crinkle their noses and shy away.

"What the hell is that?" So many of Sam's schoolmates asked when they heard Dean coughing in the next room. "You live with your grandpa or something?"

"My brother. He has cystic fibrosis."

"He sounds terrible."

And they were right. It was a rasping, rapid fire cough, thick thick phlegm rushing to the back of his throat and crackling there and always punctuated by violent, painful gagging.

"Yeah, he always sounds like that."

"Is it contagious?"

"No, he was born that way."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

Sam never had an answer.

"Dad says he's never told you much about what I have," Dean said, which pulled Sam back to the present. At the time they were staying in some shitty sublet waiting for Dean to recover from his latest infection.

He was taking forever.

"I think I know more than enough about what you have." Sam's eyes flickered with distaste to the spit cup.

Dean looked down at the cup with only mild shame, because when you've been sick for a lifetime you develop a vastly different sense of dignity.

"I just... Sam... are there any questions you have? About it?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you like this? " Sam realizes now that it's the most hurtful question he could have asked. But Dean only smiled a little, his eyes growing watery.

"It's genetic," he said, laboriously clearing his throat. "Mom and Dad each carried a gene."

"Then why I don't I have it?"

"Because, Sammy," Dean's eyes filled with fondness, just for a second, just before he smirked, "You're adopted."

"You're hilarious, Dean."

"Look, Sammy... I brought it up because when it _does_ happen? I just don't want you to think... " But he didn't finish his sentence. He just shrugged.

"When _what _happens?"

"When I die."

Back then Sam thought When Dean Dies was too far off in the distant future to bother himself with. So he leered at his brother and said, "Does this mean goodbye?"

"Sam... I don't want you to think..." Dean began. Then he stopped and huffed and started over: "I'll live to be old enough, okay? Like thirty. I promise."

"Awesome," was the only think Sam could think to say.

OOOO

Why did he run?

Sam loved his brother. He did. But he couldn't let himself get used to having Dean around. He was going to have to live most of his life without Dean and _that _was what he needed to get used to.

Sam hated his father for a lot of reasons but the one thing he understood was why Dad was always eyeballing the nearest exit, even when he was rubbing comforting circles into Dean's back and telling him, "I gotcha, son. I'm here."

They were always looking for an escape. By the time Dean was a teenager it was like he'd forgotten what life was besides bad digestion and discomfort and pain and choking and never ever breathing and _coping-- _coping and trying not to die was his whole life and he didn't know any better.

But dealing with the disease was like a constant free fall for Dad and Sam.

So Sam ran.

He went to Stanford and Dad screamed about Saving People, Hunting Things and _don't come back_ but Sam knew he was really saying _yes I failed but I didn't expect you to notice. _

His last glimpse of Dean was from the motel room window. He was in the middle of a treatment and eyes were huge and hurt and sad around his nebulizer mask, his skeletal malnourished arms wrapped around his middle.

He lifted one hand in goodbye.

OOOO

"Tell me what your brother was like," Jessica asks him one night. They've been laying in bed all day with a bottle of wine and they're drunk and Jessica's hair is soft against his chest. "You never tell me about him."

"Nothing to tell. He was sick. All the time." Sam isn't sure when he started talking about Dean like he's already dead, or why he never bothers to correct Jess when she does it, too. All he knows is that his father and brother seem like from a different lifetime, an abstraction heavy in his heart and morphed into something vague; Dad a bigger-than life shadow looming at the foot of his bed, Dean a dark figure hunched over loud machines in rooms that always smelled like sick.

"Did you look alike?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

_He looked like our mom and sometimes I liked it when he was sick because it was the only time my father spoke in a soft voice and he was fucking great with a gun and he taught me how to play pool and poker and darts and when I was fourteen we drank beer together and he loved me to death and I fucking left--_

"We both had hazel eyes."

And that's when someone knocks at the door. Sam doesn't have to ask who it is. He knows that it's Dean and he's afraid the question isn't ever going to change:

Why did you run?

::::

To be continued.

Please review :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Very special thank you to spn_mamma for being my medical consultant. You rock! And thank you chiiyo86 for helping me move this story forward.

Part Two

When Dean was fifteen he and Dad and Sammy rolled into a little town in central Washington with one of those high schools that still assigned new students a "buddy." Or maybe they just thought Dean needed a buddy, because Dean was a Sick Person and Sick People always needed a hand on the shoulder, a tear in the eye.

Either way, Dean's "buddy" was a guy named Derek and they were paired together because Derek had CF too-- he always called himself and Dean "CFers," a term Dean found repulsive because it made it sound like they were part of some whack comic book secret society with decoder rings and shit.

Derek was burly; there was no better word for it. He wore a starter jacket with his last name embroidered across his mountainous shoulders and he was always hitching the fabric forward in a spastic little flinch like he was about to pounce on whoever came near him.

He coughed like he was busting through a brick wall. He jerked Dean around the neck like they were best friends. His mouth ran non-stop with motivational speeches about "staying ahead of the disease" and "you have CF it doesn't have you" and "you cough too much you should do your PT more often."

Derek didn't seem to have bad days like Dean. He was never exhausted, never in pain. He had a vest that vibrated at some ultra speed that loosened up the crap his lungs way better than Dad's back pounding ever could. He played sports and banged chicks and was gonna live to be a hundred and eighty, or so he said.

"Derek plays sports," Sam was always saying, "I think it would be good for you. If you played sports."

"I don't know what you have against feeding tubes," Sam was always saying, "Derek has one, and look how big he is."

Almost four months they were in that town and there was no escaping Derek. Dad thought it would be a good idea for Dean to get to know "someone like him" and that's when Sammy starting begging to play soccer, so three times a week on Dad's orders Dean and Derek and Sammy took the bus down to the soccer field.

Dean and Derek would sit in the bleachers, ostensibly watching Sammy practice but Dean could barely pay attention with Derek's incessant babbling.

"--cause you gotta fight and keep fightin', know what I'm saying? You gotta get that shit up and out."

"You watch too much fucking TV," Dean said.

"You need to work on your attitude. Attitude's what's gonna kill you."

"Shut up." Dean spit fast and long out across the bleachers. "It's your turn."

That was one thing that wasn't totally fucked up about Derek-- the spitting contests. Using their endless supply of mucus they'd go at it for hours during Sammy's practices, spitting what they were sure were world record distances, working on their aim till they could knock a bluebird off an old lady's hat from a block away (or so they would have liked to think).

Dean was better and it drove Derek fucking nuts. One day he was trying too hard and the air was cold and maybe he was coming down with something and he ended up coughing until he was sick. He looked so sad puking down between the bleachers that Dean was overcome by a surge of honesty.

"I hate it," he said. "What we have."

Derek finished barfing, wiped his face, looked Dean in the eye, turned and launched a ball of snot that sailed in silhouette across the beating sun and down into the soccer field. It outdistanced Dean's spit by five feet, easy.

"You should stop feeling sorry for yourself," he said. "You have CF. It doesn't have you."

"Fuck you," Dean replied. And then he jumped down the bleachers and into the field to collect Sammy and that's the last time he ever saw Derek.

He looked him up once, though. Guy died right after graduating high school with honors. Had an article on the front page of the newspaper and everything.

Dean always wanted Sam to understand. Derek got his treatments like clockwork and didn't have guns to clean or Things to Hunt or People to Save. Derek went into the hospital every three months for "tune-up" whereas Dad counted on Dean to remind him when it was time, and most of the time that meant never, because Dean couldn't stand laying in a hospital bed thinking about all the people out there who were dying just so he could take a full breath.

He always wanted Sam to understand that he wasn't weak. That he was maybe even strong. Because Derek did everything right and it wasn't enough.

So now Dean stands outside Sammy's apartment door and hears gleeful, normal murmuring, his brother's low tones and the higher-pitched fawning of a girl.

He should turn around and walk away. Leave the poor kid alone. Let him hide and feel safe in his Stanford sanctuary.

But truth is, Dean misses his brother so bad he can feel it heavy on his chest and he knows now that the expression _worry yourself sick _came from somewhere literal.

That's sentimental horseshit, though. Dean takes a breath and blames his being here, at Sammy's door, on a more selfish, more spiteful reason:

He is big and muscled and well-fed and _healthy _now, or as healthy as he'll ever be, and this is how he wants Sam to remember him, even if the little bastard slams the door in his face.

So he clears his throat and he pops his collar and he knocks.

****

Sam's still way too drunk, still _way_ too drunk, even though it's been an hour, maybe two, since he playfully sucked the last drop of wine from Jessica's bottom lip.

It's not that he wishes Dean hadn't come. But he wants a pause button. Wants to go lay in bed with Jessica and know that Dean is coming so he can prepare.

More knocking at the door.

"It's probably Nate," Jess says, giggling, "FUCK OFF NATE WE'RE BUSY!"

"Sam?" A deep, growling voice says on the other side of the door. "Sammy?"

"Shit. Oh shit," Sam pushes Jess away and fumbles with the covers, suddenly there's like a thousand yards of duvet tangling around his legs and arms and he can't-- "Just a minute! Just-- just a minute. Shit."

"Sam what the hell?" Jess untangles herself, pulling the covers up around her chest. "Who is it?"

He should tell her. Warn her. But he can't. Because his brother's at the door and he won't stop knocking.

He's blinded by the racing of his own heart, and when he approaches the door it's like his feet aren't touching the ground but not in a good way, not like he's walking on air but like he's about to flying right off the planet's face.

And there stands Dean.

"Hey, Sammy," he says, a cautious smile in his eyes.

"Hey," Sam says.

Dean has gained a massive amount of weight. He's almost normal-sized now, and for a moment Sam's heart flutters with a ridiculous hope, like maybe Dean's going to open his mouth and say "I'm cured!"

"Dean," he says dumbly. "You're huge."

"Yeah. Check it out." Dean pulls up his shirt and points at a small plastic button on the left side of his abdomen. "Feeding tube. I got it about a year ago. Works like magic."

"Dean..." Sam begins, grimacing down at his brother's stomach.

This is a good thing, he reminds himself. CF patients have a hell of a time digesting food and gaining or maintaining weight. Dean should have gotten a feeding tube years ago.

"That's. Dean, that's really--"

Behind him there's a tiny gasp, and he turns and there's Jess standing there in her underwear, looking up at Dean and down at the port and up at Dean and down at the port like she's looking at a ghost.

Because she_ is _looking at a ghost. Fuck.

"Um, Jess?" Sam says, his eyes pleading. "This is my big brother, Dean."

Dean drops his shirt and extends his hand. "Hi."

"Hi." She looks down, notices that she's hardly dressed. "Shit. Shit, just let me get some clothes on," she says, and she flings herself down the hall.

Sam stares at Dean and Dean seems to eat it up, like he's been waiting to present himself to Sam for a long time. He's obviously very proud of the weight he's gained, how his face has filled out some and he's almost kind of handsome. But he looks pale. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and he's swaying ever so slightly.

"You've been sick," Sam says.

Dean's shoulders fall. "I was in the hospital up in Boise for a minute. They cut me loose about a week ago."

"Infection?"

"Yeah. It wasn't too bad. I'm on the upswing."

"Where's Dad?"

"I--"

Dean doesn't have time to answer because Jess pushes Sam out of the way and throws the door open (he hadn't even realized he was holding it open only a crack). She's wearing jeans now and her shirt's on inside-out.

"It's so _awesome _to finally meet you, Dean"--she casts Sam a little glare-smile--"I've heard so much about you. Come in. Sit down."

She puts her hand on Dean's shoulder and guides him to the sofa.

"I can't believe you're dating my little brother," Dean leers. "You're way out of his league."

Sam has to smile when Jessica's cheeks flush red. "Thank you. Sit."

Dean sits, brings the crook of his elbow to his mouth, suppressing a cough.

"You want some water or something?" Jess asks.

"No, thank you." He beams at her. Then his eyes travel over the room. "Nice place."

"Thanks," Sam and Jess say in unison.

And then they're all smiling ridiculously at one another in awkward, awkward, _awkward _silence. Sam is in shock. Jess of course has no reference point from which to inquire about Dean. And Dean-- well who knows what Dean's thinking.

"Dad's gone," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"When I checked myself out of the hospital, he was gone."

"What? When was this? How'd you get down here?"

"Dad bought a truck. Left me the Impala. I drove."

"You drove? By yourself?"

Dean looks affronted. "I'm twenty-six, dude. I can drive by myself."

"Where's all your shit?"

"Don't worry about it, Sam. I don't wanna bother you. I just-- I was in the area, I just wanted to come see how you were." Dean moves to stand.

"NO," Jess blurts, rather forcefully. "Stay the night. I'll get you a blanket and pillows."

Dean's eyebrows raise. He looks at Sam.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah. Of course. Stay. You look exhausted."

Dean thinks for a minute, then shakes his head. "I gotta go."

His face goes into the crook of his elbow again and The Cough finally escapes. Dread oozes down Sam's sternum, memories flood back. It's been two years and he's already irritated. But seriously-- sometimes it takes _minutes and minutes _for Dean to stop coughing.

And it's bad. Sam can tell from how crackling, how sticky it sounds.

"When's the last time someone helped you with PT?" He finds himself demanding.

"I'm fine."

"I don't like how you sound."

"I'm fine, Sammy."

"We can go in the bedroom if you're embarrassed."

Dean looks confused, then glares. Because of course he's not embarrassed. It's as normal as tying his own shoes, to him.

"It's okay," Dean insists, but it's not, because now that he's done coughing he leans back against the sofa and closes his eyes. "I'll just rest for a minute and get out of your hair."

"It's been since you left the hospital, hasn't it? How long ago was that? A week? Two weeks?"

What is unmistakably guilt glints in Dean's eyes. "I can do it myself, Sam. I been fine, getting it up on my own."

"Right. That's fucking great, Dean. That's fucking great. I'll have that carved on your fucking tombstone: 'Here lies Dean Winchester, He Did It Himself.'"

"Jesus, Sam," he hears Jess murmur at his shoulder.

But he ignores that, because he's _pissed. _"I can't believe Dad _left _you."

"I'm sure he had his reasons."

"You can't just ditch someone like you, Dean. You don't just--"

Wow. The hypocrisy hits hard enough to break him off mid-sentence.

Dean doesn't seem to notice, though. He's looking up at Sam all earnestly, like he's about to cry. "He left me one of those vibrating vests. Gets the stuff up just fine, okay? They're for people who live alone. I'm fine. I'm good. I can take care of myself."

"Which is how you got an infection, I suppose."

"It happens, Sam. All the goddamn pills, we lost an antibiotic somewhere and it fucking happens, okay?"

Yeah, okay.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to put goddamn fucking Dad away for a minute, and him ditching Dean at the hospital, and the fact that his girlfriend is going to skin him fucking alive as soon as they're alone. First things first.

"Let me give you a quick pound, okay? Just for my own piece of mind."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine."

***

So one minute they were laying in bed and the next minute there's lots of bickering and Sam's towering over his _presumably dead brother _with his hands on his hips all strung out with good-intentioned anger in a way Jess has never seen before. And then Sam's perched on the back of the sofa with the brother between his legs, and he's beating him on either side of his spine with cupped hands.

"What I'm doing is knocking all the shit loose, basically," Sam's telling her, and she's curled up in the easy chair still trying to process _Sam's brother is alive _and can't do much but nod and plaster a big fake smile on her face.

Sam keeps talking. "He doesn't do this at least twice a day? He can get all sorts of nasty infections. Weeks in the hospital. It's bad."

Dead Brother Dean seems to be strategically avoiding looking at her. He caught her eye once and seemed to sense her discomfort--oh God, if only she could tell him it's not because of his... his whatever. Honestly she can't even remember what it's called. Whatever it is, he's supposed to be _dead _of it, died a long time ago, a memory too painful for Sam to talk about and _God_ she's going to fucking kill Sam.

Who, by the way, is still talking as he beats a steady rhythm on his brother's back. "It's gonna sound pretty gross when he starts coughing shit up," he's saying with an apologetic slant to his eyebrows, "but he's gotta do it."

It seems like a rude thing to say, especially when the gross cougher in question is sitting right _there,_ but Dean looks at her briefly and nods his head in agreement.

Then he squirms under Sam's steady beating.

"Too hard," he grumbles.

"Sorry," Sam says, though his face clearly states "tough shit." He doesn't slow the speed or let up on how hard he's pounding. "God knows when the last time someone did this for you. I'm sure Dad--"

Dean twists around, catches Sam by his wrists and pulls them nose-to-nose. "I said that's too_ fucking _hard."

He seems strong for a sick guy and fear leaps into Jessica's chest. Sam doesn't seemed fazed, though, except a twitch in his upper lip. The brothers glower at one another for a long moment, face to face, and Jess can't even begin to imagine the conversation that's passing between them.

"If I knew you were gonna be such a _dick_--" Dean begins, but he's interrupted by a single harsh, painful cough. The sound makes saliva gather in Jessica's mouth and she has to clear her throat in sympathy.

Dean twists around to face front again, mouth disappearing into the cup Sam set out on the coffee table. He huffs and spits and Sam smirks, that self-satisfied smirk he gets on his face when he knows he's right.

"See," he says, resuming the pounding. "I know how hard. How many hours have I spent doing this?"

Dean coughs again in response, this time choking horribly. He makes this sort of desperate-sounding huffing noise, like the crap is stuck and won't come up, and oh god he's gonna choke, he's gonna fucking choke to death in their fucking living room--

But Sam is giggling as he continues to pound. "Something's alive in there, for sure. Up and out, bro. Eviction notice."

Congested hysterical laughing, and then finally Dean makes a half-retching noise, like maybe he's gonna vomit, and spits into the cup.

"Good job," Sam says, like he's proud. But his eyes are slick.

"I've missed your beatings, bro," Dean says breathlessly.

"You remember our safety word?"

This time Dean laugh-coughs so hard he bends forward until his head is practically between his knees. Sam stops pounding and leans forward with him, shaking silently with laughter. He looks over at Jess and she smiles a smile she doesn't quite feel.

Because it's awesome that they're having fun with this. Really. But she still can't _believe_-- Sam's _brother-- _

"I know he sounds bad, but he'll be fine," Sam says, as if _that's _what's bothering her.

"No, that's not--I just-- I'm not..." She gives up, learning back in her chair with a sigh.

"I'm-I'm-I'm-" Dean stutters, still choking and laughing, "I-I'm f--fine. R-r-really."

But he sways dangerously when Sam resumes the pounding, and Jessica can see his eyelids beginning to sag.

Sam's laugh-red face goes lax in seriousness. The pounding becomes more of a smoothing motion.

"Alright, dude. I think you've had enough."

"That was like five minutes."

"We'll do you better tomorrow. You're tired."

"I'm not staying, Sam. I'm gonna go look for Dad."

Sam snorts. "Right. You're exhausted and Dad'll still be missing tomorrow."

"I'm fine."

He turns to Jess, still smoothing his hands across Dean's shoulders. "Can you get the blankets off the bed?"

"There's some clean ones in the closet."

"Those smell like mold. He shouldn't use those."

"Sam, I'm not--"

"Let's get your meds and stuff out of the car, Dean."

Dean's face goes dark. He leans away from Sam's touch, batting the arms away. "I told you, Sam. I'm not fucking staying."

"Fine," Sam throws up his arms in surrender, "Leave. But let me do your front first. Just real quick. Lay down here on the couch."

****

So maybe things weren't going like Dean had planned. He's a little disappointed that he let Sam shock and awe him with mother henning, that Sam barely noted how healthy he looks now, how sturdy.

How quick Sam falls back into caregiver mode--it takes him a little off guard.

But it feels good. Because nurses might fuss and fawn and wipe your brow with their soft hands but there's nothing quite like the anger of a loved one who thinks you're not taking care of yourself good enough.

And when Dean feels the familiar, soothing beat of cupped hands on chest, he can't help but close his eyes in ecstasy, let his mind drift.

He's been hand-pounded to get the mucus up one to four times a day since he was a baby. And it's been weeks. He's missed it like a Healthy Person would miss their two front teeth. He's congested but can't remember the last time he could breathe so well.

But goddamn it, he's not gonna stay. He's already scared the shit out of Sam's girlfriend, pretty little thing looks like she's trying her damndest just to keep her head attached, so he'll just rest for awhile, he won't fall asleep...

****

"Never fails, does it, bro?" Sam whispers. He turns his sleeping brother on his side; he's always had trouble breathing flat on his back. He takes his sweet time untying and removing Dean's boots, smoothing the blanket over him, laying a hand on his forehead and the like, because he can feel Jess's eyes boring into the back of his head and he has no idea how he's going to explain.

***

Jess doesn't know what to do with herself. It's like she's watching a movie, her fingertips tingling and everything's shadowed by this weird dissociative feeling like waking up with a really bad hangover.

She's always thought of Sam as a gentle giant: goofy smiles, big feet, floppy hair. But the way he leans over his brother now, turns him on his side like he's had a lot of practice, pets his cheek like he's some delicate thing...

And he _is_ some delicate thing.

_Terminal_, she thinks, silently mouthing the word. Saying it doesn't make it any easier to process. Dean doesn't look bad. He's not thin. Maybe a little pale, maybe a little congested, like he's just getting over a nasty cold. But the illness-- it's like he wears it, wrapped around himself. It's in the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks, the way he hugs his arms around his body. The way he points his socked toes.

She realizes suddenly that she's standing next to Sam and they're both staring down at Dean like he's some sort of miracle, materialized spontaneously in their in living room.

She had planned to open her mouth and yell and scream and tear Sam a new one, _why the fuck did you let me believe your brother was dead_? But that seems too loud now. Too harsh. Dean is _resting. _And that seems to mean something, something different than it would if it were one of their college friends crashed out on the couch.

Instead, when she's able to find her mouth again, she whispers, "So this is Dean."

"Yeah," Sam replies, and his tone is elevated with pride but thin with sadness. "This is Dean."

::::

To be continued.

Please review, let me know you're still with me... :D


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Thank you spn_mamma for the medical advice.

PART THREE

He can still hear Dad screaming in his head, clear as a bell.

Take care of your brother.

Look out for your brother, boy.

Look out for Dean.

Sam had expected the sadness, the irritation, the anger to come back. _That_ he'd expected from the moment he heard a knock at the door.

Because it's hard to swallow down bile, to keep acid from creeping up your esophagus. Because gross shit sticks. Clings.

The good stuff, though? That stuff vanishes like a salted spirit.

So what he didn't expect to return, ever, was how much he loved his goddamn brother. _That _he thought he had put away forever, to always keep but never feel.

The disease and what it does to Dean still makes him feel like he's drowning. But something has changed. There was a time he couldn't get far enough away. Now he can't stop touching his brother, feeling his warm skin like it's the last time, like at any minute someone's going to rip him away.

***

Dean can just barely hear his brother shouting, but the edges are there, the rise and fall of panic.

He should wake up. Tell Sam it's gonna be okay.

But he can only do what his body allows.

***

She used to need two hands to count the things she knew:

Sam Winchester hates his father, took Latin in high school, studied mixed martial arts as a child, moved around a lot.

He can talk about Eve Sedgwick till he's blue in the face.

He had an older brother who died.

He's the most laid back guy you'll ever meet.

He never, ever raises his voice.

Jess sits in the big chair by the sofa and counts again, unneeded fingers curling hard into her palm.

"Dad this is Sam," Sam grits into the phone. He's sitting on the arm of the sofa near Dean's head, but the noise doesn't seem to bother his brother, who's sleeping hard, his chest expanding and collapsing sharply with each noisy breath. "He says he hasn't seen you in a week, but I bet it's been longer. He's a fucking mess, Dad. Totally exhausted. You gotta call me."

He hangs up, curses at the phone and dials again.

Even as he's snarling, his left hand is absently petting the hair off his brother's forehead in a gesture so frighteningly _maternal _that it makes her chest ache. _That _is Sam.

She doesn't recognize the rest of him.

"You hear from him, you tell that bastard to call me, you understand me? Remind him he has a son who's fucking _dying_-- what? I understand that. I don't care. He can take a few months off to--"

Jessica gets up and goes to the bedroom, wraps herself up in the one sheet still left on the bed and does a face plant into her pillow.

She doesn't even know how his mother died. She never found the right moment to ask him, and Sam sure as hell never offered to tell her.

Maybe Mom's not dead, either.

Jessica doesn't know a damn thing.

Sam makes phone call after phone call; after a while his voice drops to a tired murmur, drowned out by Dean's coughing, which sound _so _much more harsh than it does when he's awake. She didn't know someone could sleep and choke at the same time. It makes her throat feel tight.

Dean coughs. And coughs, and coughs. After a while it begins to sound different. Strangled.

"Alright Dean," she hears Sam say, "alright. Hang on."

He comes to the bedroom door, and Jess closes her eyes just as the sliver of light passes over her face.

"Jess?"

"Mmm."

"I need you to come out to Dean's car with me. Hurry." Sam's holding a brown paper bag, which he unfolds with a flick of his arm.

She flails until she's sitting, panicked by the tone of his voice. "Is he fucking okay?"

"He'll be fine. Just come with me. Please."

She follows him to the living room. Dean's sitting up but hunched elbow-to-knee, one hand splayed over his eyes and forehead, the coughing spaced by low, gasping wheezes.

"Sam... he needs a hospital."

Sam drops a flashlight in her hand. "I just need you to hold this for me, alright? He should have everything he needs in the car."

It's dark but the street lamps are on and Sam easily spots the it; a huge black thing that looks like it sucks up a lot of gas.

He goes straight for the trunk. Jess points the flashlight and there's _so much _of it. Bottles and bottles and bottles and vials and boxes and syringes and bandages and nutrition shakes and IV bags and masks all in a big pile. It's so full that when Sam unearths a little white contraption that looks like a set of curlers, a few pill bottles cascade over the lip of the trunk and fall at his feet.

He bends, snatching them up and throwing them in the paper bag.

"Alright," he mutters, "Let's see."

Sam starts loading up, glancing briefing at each bottle and vial, muttering the names to himself: "...buterol... cinolone...." Then he hands her an arm-length metal rod.

"What the hell is this?"

"IV pole. Collapsible. For his feeding tube and IV meds."

IV pole. Collapsible. For his feeding tube and IV meds. Holy god.

"What the hell are we doing, Sam?"

Sam looks at her, a little wrinkle in his brow, clearly confused. "He needs a breathing treatment."

She holds up the IV pole, like that's supposed to explain everything. " You told me he was _dead, _Sam, and now you're setting up an ICU in our living room?"

"Jess..." He begins, and looks at her with big, sad, pleading eyes and she's not going to fall for it this time, she just won't, he needs to fucking _explain. _

His gaze is long, his eyes brimming with apology. Then he hitches the bag of medication further up his hip.

"Please, Jess. My brother can't breathe." He turns and darts across the street.

***

Dean's chest is on fire and he's chilling at the edge and probably about to fall down a graying tunnel when suddenly there's a mask over his face and medicine his throat and his lungs suck it down for him, hold it just long enough, let it back out.

He's attached to his nebulizer. It's not his daily medication, though, he can taste the difference; it's for his asthma --he's got asthma on top of CF, cause God is one _hilarious_ son of a bitch.

Which means he probably had an attack. Which means there might be something in the car he's allergic to, needs to get rid of, or maybe Dad forgot and used some new chemical to shine up the Impala's leather.

Except Dad hasn't been home in a few weeks.

And he's not... he's pretty sure he's not in the car.

There's a great big hand on the side of his head and someone's talking at him.

No. Someone's talking at someone else.

"... too fucking filthy for him. You take the couch, I'll sleep on the floor."

Kinda sounds like Sammy.

Except Sammy hasn't been home in a few years.

Has he?

There's an arm slung around his back and someone's petting the hair at the nape of his neck. He must be in the hospital and they must want him to get up and go to the bathroom or something. He doesn't really have to piss and his lungs are _pain_ but he tries to stand up anyway. The arms hold him back.

"Hey-- hey hey hey hey Dean. Stop. Stop. Relax."

Alright then. He falls back against something soft, coughs a bit just to enjoy the feel of air moving through his lungs because everything's finally starting to unclench.

The guy who sounds like Sammy speaks again: "Something in this room set him off, Jess, and if we had just left him out here and gone to bed...?"

Dean waits for the punch line but it doesn't come.

Wait.

Sam's living room. He peels open an eye and discovers he's sitting with Sam, in fact Sam's crushed up against him on the sofa, holding him upright, and near them is Hot Girlfriend in her big easy chair.

"Sa--" Dean begins, but it just starts him coughing again. He hears his brother shushing him, which is irritating to say the least.

"We're gonna put you in our bed, Dean. Soon as you're done."

_The fuck you are, Sam,_ is what Dean wants to say, but jesus, what a mouthful, so instead he says, "Nuh-uh." His voice sounds thin and strangled through the mask. Worse than it should.

"Yeah," Sam responds definitively (he recognizes Sam's and-that's-my-final-word voice). "Something out here's giving you trouble."

"No," Dean repeats.

But fuck, his eyes are closing against his will anyway.

***

Some hours later she rolls over to bury herself in Sam's chest and almost tumbles off the couch. Squinting blearily toward the kitchen she sees his big silhouette stumbling around in the dark.

"It's Saturday, Sam," she says, "no class."

"I know." Sam flicks on the dim oven light, turns his back to her, and starts dropping pills into something she can't see.

Jess glances at the clock on the microwave. "Babe? It's six in the morning."

He shrugs. "We have a lot of shit we have to do. His treatments take a long time."

"Sam." She sits up, regarding him seriously over the back of the sofa. "When are we going to talk about this?"

"Jess, please. I'm sorry."

She knows how sorry he is. And she can sense how overwhelmed he is, how hard it is for him to have his brother here, how what's gone unspoken between them is quickly pushing him over the edge, and something inside her is screaming, loudly, _just let it _go. Let it fucking go.

"You lied to me," she says anyway, if only to get it out of her head.

He turns and falls back against the stove, letting his head hit the vent, and in the shadows all she can see is the glint of tears in his eyes.

"I know," he whispers.

The bedroom door flies open and Dean stumbles to the end of the short hallway and into the bathroom. The apartment echoes with the sound of vomiting.

"Fuck," Sam says.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah." He scrubs at his head. "People like him-- bad stomachs. And sometimes he swallows too much of the shit in his lungs. Makes him sick."

"Is he... does he always have this many problems?" She hates herself for asking it. But she has to know, because she hates herself even more for the question she's _really _asking: is he staying, then? Is this what it's going to be like? Because maybe it's only been a few hours and maybe she's being a selfish bitch but for all of Sam's frantic phone calls it's obvious that he has no plan, has fallen into some instinctive panic mode where all he can do is worry about his brother.

"No, this is worse than usual. When he's healthy you wouldn't even... he's--" He stops, working his jaw. "I don't know, I don't know if he's lying to me about how bad his last infection was, or if this is just the way the disease is progressing, I don't know fucking know, Jessica. I don't know."

"Hey." Jess goes to him, wraps her arm around his shoulders, kisses him on a jaw. He's tense as a rock and doesn't lean into her touch. "Get him to stay a few days, okay? Till he's feeling better."

The retching stops. Everything falls eerily silent. Sam shakes Jess off, hurries down the hall, opens the door without knocking.

Jess hears them murmuring , and then Sam calls: "Can you bring us a glass of water?"

She nudges the door open. Dean's sitting on his heels, face hidden in his arms, which are crossed over the toilet. He's covered in a sheen of sweat, his face is grey, lips dark, and Jess can see that he's trembling.

Oh, god.

Sam is kneeling behind him, his hand making sweeping motions over Dean's back. "We have a fever or anything?"

"Fine," Dean says voicelessly. "Be fine."

Sam checks anyway, mopping the moisture from Dean's forehead, and seems satisfied that he's telling the truth. He takes the glass of water from Jess, holds it out to his brother, who shakes his head no.

"You want help back to bed, or you need a minute?"

"Down, Sammy," Dean mutters, using the toilet and the edge of the sink to pull himself up, "It's just a stomachache."

He slides past them into the living room, slightly curled over, his hand on his stomach. He picks up one of his boots.

"I'm leaving," he says. But then he just stands there with his boot in his hand.

Jess watches Sam's face morph instantly from concern to something pouty, almost childish. An expression she's never seen before.

"Just stop it, Dean," he says, "Just stop."

"Stop what?"

"Being an idiot. You're not going anywhere." Sam strides across the room, snatches up the other boot. "You're staying until you're healthy."

Dean snorts. "Till the end of fucking time?"

"You know what I mean."

"It happens, Sam. I threw up, I didn't have a lung collapse. Gimme my fucking boot."

Sam glares at Dean.

Dean glares at Sam.

And then Sam extends his arm, and the boot, over his head.

Dean's face juts forward, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Come on, man. Are you kidding me?"

"Take your boot and leave, Dean," Sam says, in all seriousness, "Go ahead."

"Give me my fucking boot, Sam."

"Come and get it."

Jess finds herself hiding a smile behind her hand.

And then Dean swings.

It all happens so quickly-- both boots go flying , Sam knocks the fist away and throws his own punch but Dean catches him by the wrist, wrangles the other arm, kicks Sam's feet out from under him and they tumble to the ground, Dean straddling Sam, Sam's fingers prying at Dean's hands, which have him just hard enough around the neck that he tries to curse but makes angry little grunting noises instead. Sam's long legs fumble and twist around Dean's middle, and then Dean is tumbling on his back--

"STOP IT!" Jessica yells, yanking Sam by the back of his shirt. It seems to take him by surprise; he chokes and falls off his brother, one pajama'd knee skidding across the hardwood floor.

"Stop," she repeats, and the brothers are look up at her like they're in big fucking trouble. "Get up. Both of you. What the _fuck_?"

Sam reaches for his brother but Dean knocks his hand away, instead using the kitchen table to haul himself to his feet. He's panting, the crap shifting audibly in his lungs. Sam is also out of breath, but she has a feeling that's not why his shoulders are heaving.

He glares at Dean.

Dean glares at Sam.

"Alright," Dean says. "Two days. That's _it._"

"Fine. " Sam tears open the refrigerator door. "The shit for your neb is in here. Your pills are sorted out for the next three days in this plastic thing." He kicks the fridge shut and brandishes a compartmentalized piece of tupperware. "These are your steroids, these are your antibiotics, these are your enzymes, and this is the shit for your stomach."

"I had my meds arranged in that trunk how I liked them," Dean replies bitchily.

Sam snorts. "Sure you did." He opens the container. "Here. For your nausea."

"Too late."

"Take it anyway."

"Where's my vest?"

"You don't need it. You have me."

"You are such a little bitch."

"You're a fucking jerk."

"I'm going back to bed," Jess says.

And she does.

:::

To be continued.

Please review :)


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Just wanted to have a big THANK YOU to my anonymous reviewers. And to my non-anonymous reviewers... sorry I've been so terrible about answering reviews. I suck :( But I have vowed to be better about it, starting now. So if you haven't heard from me, just know that each and every piece of feedback has sent my little heart aflutter with joy, and you'll hear from me next time, and *LUVS*

And Justme: So good to hear from you again! I'm sorry I make you so miserable :D

Part Four

The thing about CF is it catches up with you.

You're a kid and you overhear the phrase "progressive illness" a lot but you don't really know or care what it means. You run around and you fix dinner for your little brother and pretend to kill monsters under his bed and shoot cans with Uncle Bobby and wish Dad would come home and you don't think much about being sick.

Then you get old enough to count how long the hospital keeps you. You count it in days but also in the way Dad taps his feet and bobs his knee and how Sammy gets bored and fidgety and finally downright pissed that he's stuck playing Nintendo with you in the hospital for longer and longer and longer.

You count it in how many stairs you can walk up before you need a rest. In the amount of shit you cough up and how there's always more. In the hours you spend curled up in bed with what feels like great big hooks sewing one side of your stomach to the other.

One day you notice you're really, really tired and the exhaustion starts to follow you everywhere. You asked Dad why you're so tired all the time and he explains, though not in so many words, that you are a Sick Person and Sick People get tired. Then another day your spine begins to ache and your lungs grow spikes and you figure there's no point in telling anyone how much it hurts.

Suddenly your little brother is making dinner for you instead of the other way around.

Then you're almost fifteen and trying to fuck Derek's girlfriend Jennifer Higgins (she must've had a fetish) in the backseat of her Dad's Escalade. She's worried about getting pregnant and you tell her don't worry the disease makes me sterile. And then instead of coming (which is a pain in the ass for a CFer to begin with) you cough out a handful of blood and kinda hold it helplessly in your palm while Jenny's freaking out and screaming over and over again _my dad's seat my dad's seats my dad's seats_.

And that's when you realize fuck, you _are _sick.

But you're not dying like everybody says-- just because the line between totally healthy and dropping the fuck dead is a lot thinner for you-- that doesn't mean you're dying.

So you try not to let it ruin your day.

Ruins everyone else's day, though. Like when Sammy has his stupid soccer game that's like a championship or some shit (you can't understand why the fuck he cares about kicking a fucking ball, especially when his lungs are perfect and could kick all the _ass_ he wanted if he didn't spend all his time fuckin' whining about how much he hates hunting) and the morning of the stupid game you wake up with a high fever and there's shit in your lungs so thick it's practically bubbling out your mouth like when you blow milk through a straw. And Sammy's just a kid so he doesn't understand that CF made this decision for you so he stands there in his fucking soccer uniform and surgical mask and looks at you like _you did this on purpose_.

And then a few weeks later it's like nothing was ever wrong and Dad lets you go with him on hunts more often. And you're good at wasting shit and you like the control and the way Dad smiles at you when you're standing over something dead.

Cause truth is dad never looks at you much otherwise. His arms are strong and steady on your back and his orders are clear and he cares about your safety and wants you to know how to protect yourself.

But he also has to find the Thing That Killed Mom, he lives for that. Somewhere inside he loves you but also you get in the way and you slow him down and you make him feel guilty.

Then you're an adult and Dad still keeps you around to do research and your little brother is safe and happy in college and things aren't so bad. But The Thing That Killed Mom is still out there destroying lives, and that's the only thing you still want:

You want it dead before you are.

You're twenty-six now and you realize that _progressive _means worse and worse. That you and CF are in a footrace and CF can run forever and forever but you can't. And Sammy has a way of making you so comfortable-- under his hands you can breathe better and all the aches and pains are gone and yes-- yes it's nice not to be alone.

But you can't stay.

So you do your treatments and you cough like a good boy and you rehearse ways to tell Sammy the truth, about where you've been, why Dad left, and you know he ain't gonna like it.

But you can't stay. You gotta keep running.

***

The next day and half is very quiet. Dean tires easily and tires a lot. He sleeps fourteen of the first twenty-four hours, waking up only to let Sam pound him on the back, do his various nebulizer treatments and be stuffed full of pills. He needs pills for everything-- to manage pain, to help him digest food, to settle his stomach, to prevent infections, to prevent allergies, to prevent asthma attacks. On top of that he puffs dutifully on an array of inhalers in the morning and again before he goes to bed. He coughs and huffs and spits until his face is lined with pain and he falls back against Sam, asleep.

They all start doing a lot of nodding off, actually. They throw a clean sheet over the couch and watch TV and doze and eat. Sam whips up an elaborate salad and Dean sniffs and bitches at the dried cranberries and capers but eats it anyway. Jess makes a giant stir fry and Dean wolfs down most of it, then curls up with a stomachache still groaning with pleasure.

After that the kitchen appears to be empty but at dinnertime Dean rummages through the cupboards and comes up with the most fucking delicious stew Jess has ever tasted. Dishes pile up on the coffee table and they watch TV and fall asleep again, wake up, fall asleep, wake up again, the three of them squished and leaning on each other and sharing the same massive quilt.

They go hours and hours without really saying anything besides _will you hand me that thing on the coffee table _and _I hate Tyra Banks _and _we're out of cheese. _

Around midnight on Sunday someone pounds sloppily on the front door. Dean is hugging a pillow, bent forward between Sam legs, and Sam's perched on the back of the sofa, doing the chest percussions before sending him to bed.

"Get rid of them," Sam says without looking up.

Jess goes to the door. It's Nate, this guy who works at the library circulation desk with her, and he's slobbering red-faced jolly drunk.

"Jess-say!"

She closes the door so that just her nose and one eye and half her mouth are visible. "Bad time."

"But I've got whess-kay!"

"Bad fucking time," she hisses, "We're-- we're having sex."

Nate looks up and down the crack in the door, then closes one eye and looks again. "But yer fully dresss."

Damn it. So she is. "Look, Sam's brother is visiting and he's-- call you later, okay?"

"Sam's _brother?_" Nate bellows, his voice bouncing off the overhang. "Since when does Sam have a--"

Jess slams the door. The slamming mixes with "BROTHER" and it's definitely ringing in _her _ears, but when she turns around Sam is still pounding and Dean is huffing drowsily over his cup, his eyes barely open.

"Dumb drunk asshole," Sam mutters. "Alright Dean. Bed."

Jess stands in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Sam ready Dean for his tube feeding, which he does expertly though he apparently never did it when he was younger. Dean is already asleep, his body limp and unguarded as Sam jostles him around.

When he has Dean covered adequately and has felt his forehead for fever like he does incessantly, Sam turns to her. "I'm gonna go to the store."

"Sam--" She begins, but he's already gone.

***

He stands in the cheese aisle for almost an hour.

Mozzarella would probably go best with an omelet, but he likes the kind that crumbles off in great big chunks that would probably sink to the bottom of the pan, right through the egg, and burn.

Colby Jack. He remembers Uncle Bobby grumbling about it all through his childhood; apparently it was some kind of manmade, manufactured, unreal cheese that gave you polyps on your sphincter and cancer in your ass.

Cheddar. Cheddar is what the government gave them, back when Sam and Dean were kids, big blocks of what Dad called "government cheese," along with oversized jugs of peanut butter and gallons of whole milk that went chunky in the fridge because it upset Dean's stomach and Dad wouldn't touch a glass of milk with a ten foot pole. A lot of times it was just Sam and the gallon of milk and a huge, quickly staling bag of Marshmallow Mateys, and a spork if he was lucky, and Dean's empty bed, and the gnawing, sick feeling that any minute he was going to be an only child.

Finally he decides on some pre-grated shit called "Mexican blend," which is nice and ambiguous, a mystery concoction of cheeses impossible to solve, and as long as it's calories it'll work for Dean.

He picks up the bag of Mexican blend and then just stands there staring at the cheese anyway. The refrigerator aisle is fucking cold and makes the hair stand up on his arms. As inopportune as it may be at this moment, his mind begins to make the aching transition from full fucking panic to Plans for the Future and he is frozen.

He can't let Dean go. He can't keep him, either.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck is he going to do?

***

Jess walks out of the bedroom the next morning to find Dean sitting on the couch by himself. He's attached to a little humming machine-- an oxygen concentrator, her grandmother had one-- a tube running under his nose. He's wearing a pair of Sam's pajamas pants, which hang over his bare feet propped up on the coffee table. His chest is bare, and Jess is surprised to see that he's a little built, has some muscle.

She's even more surprised to see he's drinking a beer.

"Good morning," she says.

"Morning," he replies with a pleasant smile. "You want the remote?"

"Nah." She sits down next to him. "What you watching?"

"Uh... I don't know. This guy who decorates cakes."

"Where's Sam?"

"He said he wanted donuts."

"Yum."

"Yeah."

"Hey, do me a favor," Dean holds up the beer, "don't tell Sam I had this?"

"Never."

"Thanks."

They go back to staring at the TV. She searches for something to say, _did you have a nice drive down here _, _what do you think of our campus? So, Sam tells me you're gravely ill--_

Finally she settles on "so you're how much older than Sam?"

"Four years."

Jessica nods.

Dean changes the channel and clears his throat. "Uh. How long you been dating Sammy?"

"Um. About a year and a half?"

"He ever tell you about me?"

For the first time Dean looks at Jess, makes eye contact with her. He's more handsome than Sam in a conventional, white-bred, pretty sort of way. Bigger eyes. Nose more delicate. Fuller lips. He looks like their mother, from the picture Sam keeps on the mantle. One thing Sam was telling the truth about-- they both have hazel eyes.

"Well of course he-- he told me... yes. Of course." But Dean looks skeptical so she adds quickly, "you know Sam, though. Very private."

The answer seems to satisfy him. He turns back to the TV, coughs, then coughs harder, his shoulders jerking forward. It's a dry cough this time, dry and hacking.

She reaches out to him for a moment, wants to put her hands on his shoulder. But it feels weird. She doesn't know him.

He opens his eyes and leans back. "Sorry. Oxygen makes my throat a little dry."

"Can I get you some water, or anything?"

"I'm good. Thank you."

More silence. Jess looks toward the front door.

"Does Sam," Dean says. "Is he-- does he like it here?"

Jessica searches her lap, not quite sure how to answer. She's pretty sure he's asking _is Sam happy_ and her answer is _of course. _

But. Maybe she needs to add that to the list of things she only thought she knew.

"He's... focused," she finally answers. "He takes school very seriously."

The information seems to amuse Dean. "Sammy," he mutters.

"Yeah," she says.

"He didn't even tell you he had a brother, did he?"

Jess breaks eye contact with him, looking down to pick at her fingernails, and she can feel herself fidgeting badly even as her brain is telling her to _stop_ because she's going to give herself away.

"Of.. of course he told me about you."

He studies her with the smallest quirk of a smile, ducking his head to search her face. "Just that I'm sick, right? Dying?"

It occurs to her that maybe he's _trying _to make her feel uncomfortable.

"He... he told me you were a fighter."

Dear God, what a lie. Jessica's ears burn. She can tell from the look on Dean's face that it's something Sam would never, ever say. She watches several emotions play over his face. Something hurt, something vulnerable, something sinister, something angry, something heartbroken.

"He told you I was dead."

"NO!" She blurts, too quickly, too loudly. "No, no of course not. No."

Dean nods. For a moment they sit with the chatter of the television, the hiss of the oxygen.

"Jessica," he says finally. "I came here to check up on my little brother. That's it. I don't wanna fuck up what you got here." He gestures vaguely at their apartment.

Which she takes a good look at. Aside from the picture of Sam's mother and father, everything else in the house is hers. The shit on the walls, the furniture. Sam's never been one to have or keep things. He moved in with a fork, a spoon, a knife, a plate, a mug, some clothes she made him get rid of a long time ago because they were too small and they were ugly. A haircut that didn't fit his face. A pair of shoes. In the kitchen, a Mr. and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shaker set. Both filled with salt. She'd laughed at that once, but now, for some reason, it kind of pisses her off.

"Tell me one thing," she says, the words spilling out before she can stop them,"tell me one thing that's _true_ about Sam. Anything."

Dean removes the tube from his nose, closes his eyes and coughs. He picks up his cup and spits in it, wipes his mouth, wipes whatever was on his mouth on Sam's pajama bottoms. He looks at Jessica.

"His brother is still alive."

::::

To be continued.


	5. Chapter 5

Note: I know I'm always thanking people, but what can I say-- fangirls are fucking awesome. Great big HUGE thank you to spn_mamma the medical advice and everything else (you know what I'm talking about)! And thank you, as always, to chiiyo86 for listening to me whine. If it weren't for these two ladies, this fic would SIMPLY. NOT. BE.

ALSO-- Thank you, scads of anonymous reviewers, with a special shout-out to RyanHeart. Glad I'm doing it justice.

**Part Five **

Dad tried to heal Dean once, right after his eleventh birthday.

The night before Dean was feeling shitty but he taught Sam how to work the hot plate, grill a sandwich, use tin foil to heat up fish sticks. Sam ate until he felt like he was going to barf, he'd never had such a feast. He thought he and Dean were having a party.

Dean didn't touch his food, though, just bent over himself and coughed and coughed and coughed.

"Dean? Why am I learning to cook?"

"'Cause sometimes I'm not gonna be able to do it for you, Sammy."

"Why?"

"I gotta a cold. A bad one. One that doesn't go away very often."

"Can I get it?"

"No, stupid. The monsters gave it to me. That's why Dad hunts them. To keep them from giving it to other people. But guess what?"

"What?" Sam asked, slapping his fish-battered hands on the table.

"Dad thinks he found someone who can keep the cold away."

The healer was some lanky, smelly hippy guy who looked more like a caricature than an actual hippy; in Sam's mind's eye he had a goatee and a peace sign bandana and was always holding up two fingers but who knows, really, cause Sam was just a kid.

The hippy made Dean drink something pink and chalky. It made him throw up bigger than his whole stomach. He handed Dean a bucket and said _keep on truckin', man _or at least that's what Sam remembers_. _

Dean stopped breathing and passed out and Dad freaked, had his gun in the hippy's face and everything, he was even squeezing the trigger.

And then Dean sat up with a gasp. Not like his usual swollen-throated, phlegmy gasp but an honest-to-god full-lunged burst of air. He inhaled and exhaled and inhaled and exhaled and smiled.

"It worked," he said.

Satisfied, Dad disappeared on a hunt and Sam busied himself dismantling Dean's medical equipment with a Phillip's screwdriver and a butter knife just to see what all was inside. Dean spent most of his time sitting on the stoop of their shitty motel, sucking at the air and looking amazed.

A week later Dean woke up blue-lipped and coughing his guts out, Sam called Dad, whatever he was hunting got away and that was that. Dean was right back where he started, maybe even a little worse.

After that Dad would always promise _someday we'll get you healed, son. _And Dean would nod and say "yes, sir, that'll be great" but Sam always had a feeling his brother didn't really mean it.

***

So he's dead, according to Sam. So what? Let the little bastard tell his girlfriend whatever he wants. Doesn't matter. Doesn't make Dean any less alive.

And yet he's still about to fucking cry.

Jess is still sitting next to him so he can't, instead he palms his face, sitting with the pain, promising it he'll feel it later if it'll just go away for now. Not now. Not now. He needs to start breathing again; problem is he knows he won't be able to. His throat is all closed up.

He tries anyway, because it's either that or pass out, and he hears himself make a dreadful, rattling groan.

"Dean?" Jessica says. "Are you... are you okay?"

"Can you," he says voicelessly, then sort of gasps again. "Fuck."

He can feel her soft, slim, unfamiliar hand on his bicep. "Should I call Sam?"

_Jesus Christ fucking NO. _

He shakes himself free of her. He gets tired of people touching him all the fucking time.

"Dean? Are you... what's--"

"JUST," he finally chokes out. "Get off."

There's a dead, dark silence like being trapped in a tiny little box and it's too quiet, he needs space and air to start breathing again but if he gets up he's gonna trip over his oxygen and maybe knock his cup over and wouldn't that be gross.

"Okay," Jess says. "Okay then. I'm sorry. I'll give you some space. I'm going to call Sam, though, okay?"

He doesn't answer, he's too relieved when he feels her get up, gather her things. When the front door closes he lets the air in, gasps and chokes. His stomach flip flops and clenches with pain so he goes in the bathroom and pukes violently and doesn't even try to be quiet about it.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he's fine. He's golden.

His phone rings. He flips it open without checking the screen. "Yeah."

"Dean?"

"Dad?"

"Dean."

"Dad. Hi."

"I got a call from your brother a coupla days ago."

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Dad... I don't. I was gonna. Today, actually. Did you-- did you you find it? The demon?"

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, Dad. I'm good. Where are you?"

"Your health, Dean. The truth."

Dean closes his eyes, opens them again."I'm. I'm not at a hundred percent yet, but I'll--"

"Listen to me, Dean"

Dean shuts his mouth.

"Stop looking for me. I left for a reason."

"But I'm still--"

"That's an order."

The tears are creeping out his eyes again. He masks them with a mighty clearing of his throat, and then throws himself into coughing fit just to buy some time. His chest is sounding pretty bad and he doesn't want Dad to hear it but it beats crying.

He coughs hard enough to black out for a split second and when he comes back his mouth is hot with mucus. He fumbles for his cup and gets rid of it.

"Dad," he says breathlessly into the phone, "I won't get in the way. I can help. I found something--"

"No. You stay with Sammy until I call you. You let him take care of you."

"I don't needanyone to take care of me." Christ, did he just _whine?_ Jesus Christ _fuck. _"Please, Dad. Just. Please_. _You gotta let me do this."

"No," Dad says with a clear and echoing sense of finality. "You stay with your brother. That's an order. After I'm done with this-- I promise you, son--we'll find some way to get you healed."

He always says that, has been saying it for years, like being healed is Dean's greatest dream.

Dean wants to tell his father all the childish, idiotic plans he'd made, the daydreams he'd had the first time he was healed, about killing a werewolf for his sixty-fifth birthday and teaching Sammy's kids how to shoot. He wants to tell Dad about how he'd spent a whole night huffing and spitting into his own hand just so he could examine the sputum, feel the texture and thickness and convince himself that it wasn't the CF returning even though he knew in his heart it was.

He wants to tell Dad he'd rather drop dead than do that again.

He wants to tell Dad _fuck you._

Instead he says "yes sir" and hangs up.

***

Sam walks through the front door and into Dean's fist.

He almost giggles to himself, even as he's blinded by white light and pain, as the box of donuts he was holding goes flying, as he's fumbling backwards, spinning a complete 360 and landing on his ass then hitting his head on the adjacent wall. As he's licking blood off his upper lip. Because getting knocked around? It feels like home.

"Morning, Dean."

"Good morning, Sammy. I just wanted to say goodbye."

Sam manages to peel open one eye. His brother is standing over him, looking oddly huge and ominous, nostrils flared and chest heaving.

"Trouble breathing," Sam observes.

"Get up." He finds Sam's arm and hauls him off the ground. Sam falls against his shoulder, for a split second almost certain he's going to puke down his brother's back.

"You hit me fucking _hard._"

"Shut up and listen," Dean says. And then he slams Sam against the wall.

"What --"

"Fucking listen to me. If I have to, I will leave here without my boots, without my clothes, without my meds. But I am leaving."

Sam heaves. God, his face hurts so bad. He can barely concentrate and six Deans are swirling clockwise in front of him. He thought that only happened in movies. His head lolls and then Dean's hand is under his chin like a vice, keep his gaze steady against his brother's.

"Where," Sam says, "Jess?"

Dean's face swims. "Sam. Pull it together. Long time since you've taken a head shot, huh? Rusty."

"Where?"

"She's out. I... I asked her to give us some private time."

"Donuts?"

"Forget about your donuts."

"You can't..." Sam's mouth isn't cooperating, and something is tugging at his eyelids. "Den plea."

And then he must have passed out.

He with an icepack on his swollen upper lip and cheekbone, lying in bed and Dean is sitting at the foot hacking his guts out. His whole body is coughing, back and shoulders lifting to suck in a breath and curling over again to choke.

"Can't fight... can't even bed me," Sam pauses to collect his words. "You wanna fight ghosts... can't even drag me 'cross the room."

"Shut up," Dean chokes.

"How long...?"

"About," Dean coughs, "a minute." He forces himself to stop with a few hitching, shuddering breaths. "And a half. I hit you too hard. I'm sorry."

Sam doesn't say anything. His face. It's killing him. Dean presses a bottle of water to his mouth. "Drink."

"Not thirsty." But he parts his lips and takes one swill, then another.

"Sam," Dean says, staring straight ahead at the closet door. "Last time I was in the hospital?"

"Yeah?"

"I was dying."

"Dying?"

"More than dying. I was almost dead."

It takes a moment for the blur of his brother to come into focus. Dean's eyes are heavy-lidded and his rescue inhaler is tight in one fist and Sam wonders if it's because he just used it or because he expects to need it.

"You what?" He says.

"I was dying," Dean repeats lightly. "Pneumonia, massive infection, lung collapse, ICU, ventilator, all that shit."

Sam lifts his head, attempts to prop himself up on his elbows, but it hurts. He falls back, blowing out a breath. "Must be why you're so tired."

Dean shakes his head a little. "Not stupid over here, Sam. You been giving me sedatives."

Fuck. And Sam had thought he was being pretty slick about the whole business.

"I wanted you to rest," he offers.

"I know, Sammy. And I'm rested. And now I'm leaving."

Something nudges at Sam's brain. He forces his eyes back open and he sits, ignoring the pain. "Wait. You were what?"

"Leaving."

"No. Before that."

"Dying. I almost died. I just barely didn't die."

"You...?"

"I was in the hospital for two months. Lay back down before you puke, Sam."

"You were dying?"

"Yeah."

"What about Dad?"

"Dad was fine."

"Goddamn it, Dean. Where _was _he? Why didn't he call me if it was _that _bad?"

Dean clears his throat, coughs. Sam hears something come up, but whatever it is, Dean swallows it.

"You really want me to answer that?" He asks.

No, Sam sure doesn't. He fingers the bruise on his face and groans.

After a minute Dean continues. "I had a fever that was... I was only awake a couple times the first six weeks, Sam. But the second time I woke up? He was there. Waiting."

"Waiting?"

Dean nods. "I asked him if I was dying. And he said yes. And then he told me where to find the Impala, just in case. And then he said goodbye."

Sam's head is going to explode, he's sure of it. "Jesus Christ, Dean, he couldn't even wait for you to die before he took off? Are you fucking _kidding me_?"

Suddenly Dean's hand is in the middle of his chest, pushing him back down, and for some reason Sam can't fight it, his fucking head and face and heart hurt too goddamn much. He struggles futilely, then falls back into his pillows.

"Don't make me knock your ass out again," Dean growls. "Just up and listen. This is gonna be hard for you to understand, but. Dad and I had an agreement."

Even the little amount of light leaking through the blinds is enough to make Sam want to off himself. He throws his arm over his eyes. "Christ, Dean."

"The Thing That Killed Mom," is Dean's reply, and Sam tenses just hearing it.

The Fucking Thing That Killed Mom. The Fucking Thing That Killed Someone Sam Never Knew and Fucking Ruined His Life is how Sam thinks of it. His dirty little secret.

"What about it?"

"Dad and I had an agreement. If he ever got wind of it, got a good lead, had _any_ kind of chance of killing the fucking thing? He would. No matter what was going on with me. Even if I was real sick. Even if I was dying."

Sam rubs at his face. He gropes for the icepack, mutters a thanks when Dean presses it into his hand. Stale water leaks into his mouth.

"So he ditched you in the hospital. To go after The Thing. And now you want to go find him. You want to go rush out and fucking kill yourself right alongside Dad."

At first Dean doesn't answer. He begins to cough again, and it almost sounds forced, like he's buying himself time before he has to answer. His chest is thick with mucus though, Sam can hear it. Not three hours ago he coughed himself practically sick and now he's filled back up again, right back up.

"You're an idiot, Dean," Sam whispers under his breath. "Listen to yourself."

The fit peters off, leaves Dean breathless. "I know the difference now, Sam."

He feels Dean tugging the icepack away and trying to move the arm he has slung over his face, blocking out the light. Blocking out Dean.

"What?" He spits, and he knows he sounds like a child but _fuck. _

"Look at me."

"Fucking _what?_"

"Look at me."

Sam unshields his eyes and is surprised by what he sees. Dean has this expression he's kind of mastered-- a sort of knowing, peaceful, docile, fatigued expression, like _yes maybe I'm ill but my trials have made me wise beyond my years_. A face he puts on for people who are uncomfortable with his illness. So they don't have to feel guilty. So they don't have to feel sorry.

Well he's been wearing it, for Jessica, maybe for Sam, since they first answered the door. But now it's gone and his eyes are hard, jaw taunt and Sam must really have a head injury because he thinks ridiculously _hey there's my brother. _

"What, Dean?" He says again.

"I understand the difference now, Sammy. Between dying and _dying. _I wish-- if you could... he thinks I'd slow him down." Dean leans forward, thoughtful, fiddling with the cap of his inhaler. "It's a demon, Sam. And I found something, for Dad. Something that will kill it. And if I can get a hold of it? Maybe Dad will... maybe..."

Sam waits a beat for his brother to finish, but Dean seems to be done.

"Dean... I _will not_ let you-- you can't--you..."

But he's too fucking tired to argue. His brother is a reckless moron anyway, always has been. Just too tired. In fact, about to fall asleep, which sounds just fucking awesome because it's like he can't keep his eyes open another second, his eyelids are thick and sagging and words just barely pass from his sluggish lips: "Fuck, Din wa'd'you doin'?"

"Sleepy-time pills in your water, bro."

"Nuh?"

Dean's hand falls on Sam's forehead. "I know you feel guilty, letting me leave. So I'm giving you an out. Have fun, okay? Maybe I'll stop back by for your graduation."

"Den?"

"See ya, Sammy."

_Fucking sedatives? _Sam's mind screams. But the rest of him passes out.

::::

To be continued.


	6. Chapter 6

WARNING: Parts of this chapter are kind of... icky. We're also about to veer sharply out of Canonville :D

Note: Thank you Briannon...

**PART SIX**

First it was all dark like a sleep you couldn't wake from. It was okay. It was being simple and left alone. There was still the rustling of the trees and the purring of the freeway and the flushing of water but it was black. He doesn't know how long it went on, how long it was blackness and purring and rustling. He had a feeling time wasn't important anymore.

There was despair. There was something missing that hurt. There was something ripped away but he didn't know what.

Then there was jealousy and something else that felt familiar. He discovered that the familiarity was something he could follow. He could find it in the darkness, follow it, wrap himself around it.

So that's what he did, and then he was moving.

***

The nebulizer and the IV pole and the oxygen concentrator are gone. The sheet they'd used to protect Dean from the apparently asthma-inducing sofa is folded neatly and thrown over the back of the couch. The colony of pill bottles has disappeared from the kitchen and coffee tables. The dishes are washed and stacked neatly in the rack.

Jess hates to admit it but it's like someone opened the windows to let a warm, sweet smelling cross breeze in. She shouldn't be so relieved.

She is _so_ evil.

But she hadn't realized until she'd stepped back into the outside world how difficult it was to be surround by illness, by Sam's frantic energy. The brothers seemed mostly nonchalant and accustomed to the whole business but when Dean was suffering Sam suffered right along with him and too much, too much was going on that she just didn't understand.

But that's over. She takes a deep breath and allows herself to smile. She has her place back, her boyfriend back. She can figure things out with Sam. They can work it out. And they can have Dean over again and do it right-- make plans, take him to dinner, show him around campus.

Next time. It'll all be fine.

She peaks in their bedroom and smiles at the great big snoring body in the bed, his face hidden in the nest of pillows, hands fisted over his head like a baby would sleep. Her heart floods with affection she hasn't felt in days.

She sits down and pokes him in the side. He doesn't move, just keeps snoring, which is weird--not just weird-- wrong. Sam has always been a light sleeper, a bad sleeper.

"Baby?" She taps his chest. "Sam, wake up."

He turns his face and groans a little, and that's when she sees his fat lip, his swelling face, the knot on the back of his head.

"Holy shit! Sam? Sam wake up."

Sam groans something that sounds like "fine," his face crumpling in pain. She watches nervously as he tries to rouse himself.

"Where," he mumbles.

"What?"

"Dean." Sam's good eye opens. He nudges her away so can sit up. "Where is he?"

"Dean? He-- Sam. What happened to your face?"

"Where is he?"

"He's gone, Sam. He didn't say goodbye?"

He jumps out of bed. She follows him out into the living room, where he pauses at the door to wrestle his shoes on, curses and muttering and tugging at his laces. He storms out of the apartment, down the stairs, out into the road.

The car is gone. Sam stops on the other side of the street, wipes the crusties out of his eyelashes, squinting in the fading sunlight. He turns to Jess.

"He's gone?"

"Yeah-- I-- Sam... I guess so."

"His stuff is gone from the house?"

"Yes."

"FUCK." Sam brings his fist down on the nearest car. "Fuck fuck FUCK."

"Sam, I'm sure he's--

"Where's my phone? Do you have your phone on you?"

"In the house. Come back inside. You need some ice for your face."

"I don't need ice. I need a fucking _phone_."

He glares at her like he expects her to make one materialize from nowhere. The way the sunlight hits his brow creates black caverns were his eyes should be. With one side of his face all swollen up and purple he looks like some kind of creature, alien. Monster.

"Where the fuck is my brother?" Sam says, his voice rising in panic. "He wouldn't--he can't just--"

She throws up her hands. "He's not a little kid that might've wandered onto the freeway, Sam. He's a grown man."

"Well I guess you got your fucking wish," he spits.

She knows he's groggy and the grogginess is making him irrational, but -- "what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you could have tried a little goddamn harder to make him feel comfortable."

"More _comfortable_?"

"YES!" Sam wails. "Could you have been more awkward?"

"I can't believe you."

"The way you looked at him, like he was-- he's sick, Jessica, he's not some kind of fucking _freak_."

She can't do much but shake her head in disbelief. "That's great, Sam, that's a _really _fucking good one, why don't you tell me about the look on _your _face next time you see a walking corpse--"

"Are you ever gonna let that _fucking go__?_"

"What is hell is _wrong _with you?"

"You have no fucking _clue_," he says, stabbing his finger at her, "You have no idea what it's like to have to make that kind of choice, between being my brother's fucking nurse or running away to college, and the way my dad-- it's a fucking miracle Dean is still alive in the first place and I was _selfish_, I decided--"

"--HEY!" someone calls, to Jessica's left. They both turn toward the noise and there's Nate, a couple of floors up, hanging out the window. "You lookin' for your brother?"

Sam squints up at him for several beats, like he doesn't understand the question. "Is he... is he up there with you?"

"Yeah dude. Playing pool." Nate squeezes the bill of his baseball cap and glances nervously over his shoulder. "I think... I think you need to take him home, dude. He's... messed up."

"Goddamn it, Dean," Sam growls under his breath. He takes three frantic strides toward the building then stops, turning back to Jess with that fucking kicked puppy lookon his face. "We'll... we'll talk later, okay? We'll talk about all of it. I promise."

And then he turns and runs. She watches him go and she's not angry, exactly, because the rational part of her understands emotionally charged family drama, if only to a lesser degree. The rational part of her also knows that Sam is right-- she doesn't have a fucking clue and probably never will.

So every other part of her turns and walks away.

***

Sam's never been able to figure out how many people actually live with Nate. His house is always sardine-packed with hideous parodies of college jocks, men who didn't even go to Stanford and God knows where they came from or why they were here, men who addressed each other by stupid nicknames, never spoke unless they were screaming at the top of their lungs, never drank unless they were shot-gunning Beast, never ate unless it was to lick nacho cheese off their fingers.

The door stands wide open and Sam walks into a thick crowd of students and townies mingling around mounted flat screens blaring with Monday night football.

Six of them, including Nate, are gathered at the pool table swilling from red plastic cups. The place smells like ground beef and cigars.

Sam spots Dean immediately, readying his shot, studying the eight ball with one eye clamped shut. He looks drunk; shitfaced, in fact. There's a pile of bills at one corner of the pool table. He holds up a twenty and throws it on the pile.

Goddamn it, Dean.

At least he had the good sense to use his oxygen. There's a cannula under his nose, the tubes snaking over his shoulders and into a duffle bag strapped to his back.

Sam stops for a moment, watching. Dean over-aims, then takes his shot and misses.

But the way he's positioned the eight ball-- the next guy is never going to make the shot.

The guy he's playing-- a tubby, red-faced blond townie that Sam recognizes as Josh or Jason or something, but everyone calls him King-- growls at the table and violently chalks his cue. He points to the far corner pocket, sloppily takes his shot and misses. A rowdy chorus of "YOU SUCK" swells up from the crowd.

"Who wans'ta bet me I makeit thiss time?" Dean slurs, swaying and sneering happily at the men around the table. He coughs chestily, but Sam can tell it's forced. He's not drunk, either.

King guffaws heartily and shakes his head. "Never, bro, you're never gonna make that shot."

"Putcher mula wer yer mouthiss, Cartman."

King thinks about it, then shakes his head. "Nah. Think yer broke enough."

"C'mon!" Dean wails. "All er nothin'! Gimmea chanceta winnit back."

King and a couple of his buddies huddle. There's some murmuring, then they slap three more twenty-dollar bills on the table.

"Hey," Sam says, breaking through the crowd and pulling at Dean's shoulder. "Enough. Let's go."

"Sammers! You made it!" Nate reappears from nowhere to clap him too hard on the back, regarding him drunkenly. "Hey. Wha happen to yer face?"

Sam ignores him, squeezing Dean's shoulder hard. "Dean. Come on. Please."

"You met Wheezer?" King says. "Wheezer, Sammers, Sammers Wheezer."

"Niceta meet you, Sammers" Dean says, conspicuously removing Sam's hand from his shoulder. "Finishin' tha game. Back off." With a drunken leer he holds out his beer cup to the men around the table, sloshing some on the table. "Ummuna show you all--you washing?"

He picks up his cue and starts lining up his shot.

"Dean, there are people smoking _cigars_ in here," Sam hisses into Dean's ear as he's bent over the pool table.

"That's what the oxygen's for."

"It's not even on, Dean."

Dean looks innocently over his shoulder at the duffle. "Oh. Guess the battery ran out. I _need_ this money, Sam. Get the fuck off me."

"What, SSI not good enough?"

"Not for two more weeks," Dean hisses, "Dad took all my fucking cash-- now back up."

"Dean, seriously," Sam whispers frantically, "these guys are always looking for a reason, man, so don't fucking give them one."

"Get the fuck _off _me." Angry now, Dean spins back to the pool table, points to the side pocket and takes his shot. The cue ball ricochets twice before knocking the eight ball cleanly into the pocket and there's nothing drunk or sloppily or amateur about it. The crowd of jocks square their shoulders, glowering at Dean, at the money, at the pocket where the eight ball disappeared, back at Dean.

"Lucky shot?" Dean says with a congested chuckle.

The silence drags on. Sam puts his hand back on Dean's shoulder and Dean doesn't shake it off this time. He stands there, fiddles with his cannula and arranges his face into an expression that says _you wouldn't hit the sick guy, would you?_

Nate starts wandering away-- thank god he's secretly in love with Jess, Sam knew there was a reason he put up with the guy-- but King steps forward, raising his chin.

"What the fuck, dude?"

Dean nods at the pile of cash. "Okay, you got me. Just take your fucking money."

"So what, you're some kinda hustler? That shit under your nose a prop?"

Dean detaches himself from the cannula, removes the backpack and throws it on the floor. "Real as can be. Doesn't mean I can't kick your ass."

"Dean for fuck's sake." Pulling Dean away is obviously no use so Sam steps between them. "Look, King. This guy is my brother, alright? He's been real sick--"

"--Sam shut the fuck--"

"--and obviously he feels like he's got something to prove. Just take your money and let it go, okay?"

"Dean," King says, blinking. He scowls a little. "Dean?"

Then it's like everything freezes over. The cold shoots through Sam, making the hair stand up on his arms, and he looks down and sees his own breath emerge from his mouth in a frozen cloud.

Oh, _shit. _

"Talk," King says.

Dean steps out from around Sam. "What was that, Tubby?"

King's eyes go blank."Talk. It doesn't... it doesn't. It doesn't _talk._"

One of the other jocks cocks his head. "King?"

King blinks slack-jawed at Sam and Dean. Then he begins to gasp, his mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish.

Oh, hilarious.

"Very fucking funny," Dean says.

King sucks in heaving, melodramatic breaths, then coughs a few times, dry and mocking and _fake_.

One of his buddies laughs awkwardly. "Dude, that's sooo fucked up."

Dean cocks his head like he can't believe what he's seeing. "Are you...?" He turns to Sam. "Is this guy...?"

King makes a low, growling _heeeeee_ noise, then goes silent, his mouth still opening and closing, opening and closing. His eyes bulge out of his head.

"Dude," Dean says, "Mocking a guy with CF seems pretty un-PC, even for date-raping meathead like you."

And then King goes stiff as a board, keeling over onto his back, flailing, his hands flying to his neck. He begins to seize, his lips blue, his mouth foaming, eyes bursting from his head, neck muscles straining, veins pulsing on his red forehead.

The room goes terribly, terribly silent except for King's feeble, wet choking noises. God knows how long they all just stand there staring-- long enough for King to stop bucking and go still.

"Does... does anyone know CPR?" someone says.

"Is he fucking for real?" Dean says, but even as he's saying it he's stepping forward, dropping to his knees beside King, tilting his chin.

"Dean let me."

"Fuck off, Sam."

"Dean-- you don't have enough fucking air." He pushes Dean out of the way and leans down, giving King a once over and holy shit, he really _isn't _breathing.

"You," he says, pointing to the nearest of King's buddies, "Call 911."

He gives King two breaths and starts pumping, but all around him people are cursing and jostling his shoulders and he looks around for Dean while he's doing compressions and can't see him anywhere, just denim and feet and knees and beer cups, and he loses count somewhere between 15 and 20 so he gives up and leans down to give King two more breaths. A _hurk_ rises from King's throat and Sam's mouth fills with vomit-- he turns his head, spits black and thick and heaves and it takes every last ounce of his self control not to puke. Some girl pushes him out of the way and says _I'll take_ _over_ and Sam lets her.

Someone begins to laugh, shrill and manic. Sam turns and it's Nate, and it's like he's laughing in slow motion, his back arched, hands in his pockets, his head thrown back so far his baseball cap slips and falls to the ground. Someone smacks him on the back of the head but he keeps laughing, higher and higher.

Then there's a familiar hand on Sam's elbow and it's Dean. He clings to his brother's shirtsleeve and they watch, they just sit there and watch as King comes back to life roaring, flinging the girl halfway across the room. He flops and struggles for air, vomit still trickling from the corners of his mouth, skin turning from red to blue to gray. His eyes are mostly shut and rolled back in his head but suddenly they fly open, teary and angry and seeing, gaze shifting frantically from left to right. He forces out one final, frustrated squeal, reaches his shaking fist out at nothing and then goes limp.

Only four minutes has gone by by the time the ambulance arrives but it doesn't matter, King is already dead.

***

Dean pulls his brother out of the apartment before the cops show up.

He's seen a hundred people and a thousand _things _die but there's still a shitload of adrenaline pumping through his system, opening his airways and--as fucked up as it might be--putting him in a pretty good fucking mood. Tendrils of pain are starting to work their way up his spine, but he ignores it same as he tries to ignore how fucking _exhilarated_ he feels.

"Sam... that was fucked up."

Sam's very pale and still wiping neurotically at his mouth like he can't get the puke off. "No shit."

"That's not what I mean. I mean that was _fucked_."

"You don't know that guy, Dean," he mutters, "probably a coke overdose or something."

"That was no coke overdose. That was freakin' supernatural and you know it."

Sam just grunts and keeps walking.

They return to the apartment in silence. The sun has gone down and the place is almost black but neither of them bother with the lights. Dean stands in the doorway while Sam wanders around the apartment calling "Jess?"

There's a note on the fridge. Sam plucks it off and reads it, his face expressionless.

"She's staying with friends for a few days," he says, crumpling the note in his fist.

"Dude, I'm..."

"It's okay." Sam looks at his watch. "It's time to do your chest."

Dean wants to say no because he feels great. But he knows that somewhere underneath the adrenaline rush he hasn't had CPT all day and his lungs are filled to the brim with crap.

"I got my vest," he says, "You don't--"

"Nah," Sam says. "I'm okay."

"She'll be back, Sam." Dean says, "God knows why, but that chick loves you."

Sam snorts wet, teary, hopeless laughter. "I felt a cold spot."

"What?"

"A cold spot. Right before King started to choke. And the way Nate was laughing..."

"You think he was possessed?"

"Maybe."

"We have to check this out."

"Yeah. We do."

"Sam." Dean's hand grips Sam's elbow. "Can you do this?"

"Yeah. Can you?"

"Of course."

"Okay," Sam says, "Okay."

Then he bows his head and pinches the bridge of his nose and begins to cry.

***

"Hey," Dean says, standing close. "This is a bump in the road, dude. We'll take care of it and things'll go back to normal."

Sam can't say much, can't think about much, but he know that's bullshit, things aren't ever going back to normal, maybe he doesn't even _want _things to go back to normal and God he hates Dean for it, but at the same time--

Dean tugs at his arm. Sam allows himself to be led to the sofa. For a minute his brother just sits beside him, breathing harshly, his hand resting between Sam's shoulder blades as he hitches with pathetic sobs.

Sam turns and buries his wet, snotty face in Dean's shoulder. He's not sobbing, not really, it's just pain his chest and tears leaking out his eyes, but he presses his ear to Dean's chest and listens to whistle and crackle in his brother's lungs, uniform in some ways and unpredictable in the others and the sound horrifies and scares and comforts him all at the same time.

He's about to lose his girlfriend.

It's only a matter of time before he loses Dean, too.

And now he's a hunter again.

"Fuck," he says, pulling away from his brother. "Goddamn it _fuck._"

"Sam. Here." Dean pushes a pillow into Sam's arms, then kicks his shoes off and sits on the back of the sofa. Confused, Sam wipes his nose on the pillowcase, following his brother's movements with tear-blind eyes.

"Lean forward, hug the pillow," Dean says.

"Oh come on--"

"Shut up. You'll like it, it's... relaxing."

Sam scoffs but leans forward. Dean begins to pound on either side of Sam's spine with cupped hands.

It doesn't feel good, exactly. In fact it's kind of jarring and feels silly and even hurts a little. Eventually he relaxes into the pillow anyway, sighing deeply, lulled by the beat. The tears might still be seeping but he breathes freely and when Dean begins to hum he recognizes it as some Metallica song, the title just on the tip of his tongue as he drifts in and out of sleep.

:::

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

PART SEVEN

Once upon a time he was Big Brother and Dean has always wondered when, exactly, Sam stopped seeing him that way. When he became a Sick Person instead.

He's got memories filed away, memories he examines over and over-- the first time he could barely drag himself out of bed, his first major lung bleed, his first bout of pneumonia, the first time he got seriously ill when Dad wasn't around.

Maybe it was when he failed everyone by not staying healed.

Or maybe it was the party.

He's not sure what the hell he was thinking, except that Dad was gone and Derek knew a bunch of girls, girls who smelled like candied fruit and hairspray and didn't mind boys with chronic illnesses, in fact they seemed to like it and were always fawning and giggling and petting.

Honestly they all bored the shit out of Dean because all they ever talked about was Pearl Jam and Eddie Furlong and how all the other girls at school were fat.

But Dean wanted to party.

Sammy pissed and moaned about it all week. "You're gonna get sick. Dad's gonna kill us. Someone will call the cops."

"Shut up, Sam," Dean said over and over, flicking his brother hard on the head. Cause maybe so but Dean could give a shit less. He bought a pallet of ramen to get them through the week food-wise and spent the rest of the food stamps on soda and chips and hot dogs. He used one of his fake IDs to stock the cupboards with liquor and the fridge with beer cause goddamn it, he was gonna party.

Everybody in town loved Derek, their token dying guy, their own personal Hallmark movie star. So of course the ten people they'd planned to invite quickly multiplied to fifteen, then twenty, and then most of the small high school was crammed into the motel room, which was a double king but there was still nowhere to stand and just moving from one end of the room to the other was a massive production.

Around eight o'clock someone lit the first joint. Dean looked around and couldn't see Sammy anywhere, so he took a drag and was sent spinning into one of his most epic coughing fits he's ever had. His classmates laughed and clapped him on the back. So he smoked more.

It was around nine-thirty the first time someone vomited into the sink. The smell stung Dean's nose. People watched him puff on his inhaler, their brows knitted in concern. Girls crowded around him, rubbing his shoulders, running their fake nails through his hair. He started drinking Evan Williams straight out of the bottle just to lube his throat and have an excuse to cough.

Around ten Derek dramatically declared that he wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. He took half the party with him but there are still a ton of people standing around, puking in the bushes outside, yelling, groping each other to the music.

Around eleven Dean realized he was in actual pain and it was getting pretty terrible, that he was breathing like someone poked holes in his lungs. He opened his mouth to tell everyone to leave but his head spun from the liquor, he was stoned as fuck, his stomach was staging a fiery rebellion and his inhaler--well, he might as well have been sucking on an empty roll of toilet paper.

Around three in the morning he woke up in the bathtub, wet and naked except for his neb mask. Everything was quiet, blissfully quiet. Sammy was kneeling outside of the tub, wiping Dean's face with a cool rag.

"You puked on yourself," Sam said. His voice was low and quavering with disappointment. "You scared me."

"I'm not weak," Dean replied.

It didn't make any sense to say that, in retrospect. He was weak as a kitten. He could barely lift a hand to cover his dick, let alone muster up an apology or embarrassment or shame.

If he could just make Sam understand how hard he fought his own body. Every day.

But he couldn't. So he repeated, "I'm not weak."

Sam brought in blankets and pillows and made Dean a nest right there in the bathtub. He put him on his oxygen and made sure the heat was on and shut out the bathroom light and said "goodnight, Dean."

***

Sam jars awake. It must be morning because the sun's out but he's lying fully dressed on the sofa, blanket thrown over his lap. He whips around for signs of Jess, of Dean. There's nothing, just the hum of daytime and the buzzing of the fridge.

He hears Dean groan and the half-strangled sound sends him running into the bedroom.

Where he find his brother sicker than shit. Dean's on top of the blankets but under a film of sweat, white-faced and unfocused eyes, his head swaying back and forth on the pillow, dragging in thick, rattling breaths.

"Shit, Dean..."

"Sam _don't_," Dean wheezes, flinching slightly. "Don't touch... my back."

Sam freezes near the bed, his arms outstretched as if to grab his brother. "What'd you do? You pull something?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"CF thing... you know CF.... genetic..."

"Okay, okay. Shut up and breathe."

Dean closes his eyes. He's really struggling, lifting his shoulders then grimacing as the movement strains the muscles of his back.

You'd think Sam would get used it, seeing his brother like this. But it's like a brand new thing every single fucking time, never ceases to amaze him how swiftly and definitively the illness can knock him on his ass. The muscles in Sam's face twitch, the corners of his mouth forcing themselves downward as he fights off the urge to cry. How the fuck--

"How the fuck we gonna hunt, Dean? How the fuck are we gonna _hunt_ something?"

"Christ... Sam..." Dean buries half his face in the pillow and coughs, long and hard and painful, mucus so thick it forms strings, like a harp, from his upper lip to his bottom. Sam grabs the cup from the nightstand and holds it to his brother's mouth.

"Dean. You gotta let me turn you on your side."

"No--"

When Dean's done with the cup Sam puts it back and takes one of Dean's arms, using his other hand to support Dean's back, and pulls him over. Dean bites back a yelp and dissolves into another rapid, snapping coughing fit and Sam curses himself for falling asleep without doing CPT. Dean can't just skip it whenever he feels like it anymore. Neither can Sam.

"Why the fuck didn't you wake me up last night?"

Dean's face is all screwed up in pain. "Sam I can't-- you gotta-- my fucking back, dude. It _hurts._"

He falls over to his original position, flat on his back.

"How the fuck are we gonna do this?" Sam repeats.

"We're gonna just... do it. Bring me the neb... something for pain... it'll be fine."

"Seriously, Dean--"

"_Sam._" Dean looks up at the ceiling, his eyes fluttering in misery. "Don't... don't do this shit...to me... right now... okay?"

Sam goes out to find the car--parked just out of sight around the corner, apparently. The sunlight seems especially obscene today, trees dancing in the wind, birds singing and shit. The campus' manicured beauty makes Sam want to kill someone. He walks passed Nate's staircase, all blocked off with yellow police tape wrapped haphazardly around and around the banister like something condemned. A couple of police cars still parked out front. The sight of them makes something prickle up Sam's shoulders.

There were a lot of them growing up, cops. But they weren't the scary ones. The scary ones were the caseworkers escorted by the cops, the ones with wrinkly foreheads and gummy smiles who were always worried that Dad wasn't being compliant with Dean's treatments or that his living conditions were dangerous, who suggested that maybe Dean could be healthier (a roundabout way to say he was too sick), that he was missing too much school, that maybe his little brother shouldn't know so much about how to take care of him.

When they visited Dean put on extra layers to hide how thin he was. He slapped his cheeks in the mirror to give them color. He wet the comb in the sink and brushed Sammy's hair back so he looked like an Italian gangster while Dad check and rechecked that all the guns were hidden. They even had special clothes that they only wore for caseworker visits, and by the time Sam was old enough to talk they practically had a script, a collection of canned conversations that demonstrated how happy and healthy and well-adjusted they all were.

If Dad had it his way, no one would ever have known the Winchesters existed. But because of Dean's illness they didn't have a choice. His medications were hundreds of dollars a month and his nebulizer-- which was always getting banged around and dropped and crushed and shot at--needed to be replaced at least once every couple of months.

Sam looks in the trunk now and wonders how long Dean has been hoarding this stuff. He's got two of every piece of equipment, except for the vest, they tend to cost thousands of dollars and Dad obviously snaked this one from somewhere because it looks far too small for Dean.

There are also a dozen inhaler casings without canisters, a ton of balled-up Pulmozyme and Tobi wrappers mixed with molding McDonald's bags. Some of the bottles--mostly the allergy pills and the enzymes that help him digest food-- have women's names on them; Sherri Livingston and Linda Stevens and Erin O'Reilly. He's also got an plethora of pain killers under a half a dozen aliases, everything from ibuprofen to time-released morphine and Sam would bet anything that more than half of the medication is stolen or expired or both.

Stuffed in the corner is a mountain of papers-- mostly unfilled prescriptions but some are caregiver instructions, applications for health insurance and government assistance, bills and invoices and collections letters. Folded in half and bound by a rubber band is a stack of PFT records-- tests that track Dean's lung function, which Sam can't even bring himself to look at.

It hurts to see it, all this evidence that his brother is a very sick man scavenging to survive, who's been alone for way too long.

Sam starts filling a plastic bag with stuff for the nebulizer-- a med to open his brother's airways, one to thin the mucus, one to promote expectoration, one to help keep the bacteria at bay. Then, curious, he goes to the backseat.

Here Dean's illness doesn't exist. Instead it's a mess of condom wrappers, empty bottles of liquor, tangles of clothes, mostly Dean's but also a couple stray bras, crumpled up phone numbers. A greasy pizza box, a few books, a scattered deck of cards, a jug of what is probably holy water.

Sam sets the plastic bag on the ground and unlocks the back door. He lifts up the passenger seat.

Christ. Dad left him almost nothing. There's a sawed-off, an old sad-looking.45, a machete of modest length and a shovel. That's it. Not even an iron fire poker or a box of rounds.

Not that any of it would do any good against a demon.

The very thought makes Sam's knees go weak. He slams the seat down and uses the Impala's door to hold himself upright, resting his forehead on the hood of the car and taking a deep breath.

Glancing one last time at the meager stock of hunting supplies, Sam slams the door and hurries back upstairs, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge on his way back to the bedroom.

"Tell me you brought... some of the good shit," Dean heaves, and even while practically suffocating he manages to smirk.

Sam hands his brother three ibuprofen and the bottle of water. Dean scowls at them.

"What... the fuck... is this?"

"To take the edge off while we do your treatments."

"Christ, Sammy... come on. Your big brother... is in pain."

Sam snorts. "My big brother is going to pass out and suffocate if I give him anything stronger. Here," he tosses Dean his rescue inhaler, "suck on that for a minute."

Dean continues to grumble breathlessly but Sam doesn't pay attention, instead busying himself pouring albuterol into the nebulizer cup.

"You know, Dean, I been thinking--" He looks over and sees that Dean is nodding off. "HEY. No sleeping."

"'m tired."

"Stay awake. I've been thinking." Sam fits the mask over his brother's face. "Maybe we should call somebody else to take care of this."

"Care a what?"

"Whatever killed King last night. I just don't-- I don't think we're up for it. You're sick, Dean, and I..." He lets himself trail off for a moment to debate which excuse is going to piss Dean off the least. _I don't want this life? This isn't my responsibility? I just want my girlfriend back? _

"... I'm too out of practice," he finishes.

Dean squirms a little, like he's trying to get comfortable and finding it totally impossible. Sam can tell his lungs are already starting to open up, thanks to the medication, but he's still flat on his back and breathing hard like oxygen is something that needs to be snatched out of the air, like a frog tonguing a passing fly. He closes his eyes, apparently not planning on responding.

Sam's reminded of the last time he saw Dean, out the window of their motel, too sick and too exhausted to even get up and beg Sam to stay. Then the anger flares again, because this is all so fucking ridiculous, they can't do this, how are they gonna do this?

"What the hell are you planning on doing when this shit happens when you're alone, huh? Lay here and die slow?"

"Sam," Dean says, opening his eyes halfway. "Stop."

"No."

"Yes."

"_No_."

"_Yes_."

"No. I want you to tell me how you expect to take care of yourself."

It's not fair to ask, not when Dean is feeling this shitty, Sam knows that and doesn't care. His brother's eyes are closing again, and Sam smacks him on the arm. "I SAID NO SLEEPING."

Dean struggles onto his side, hissing against the pain. He throws the still-hissing mask at Sam. "Put some pulmozyme in that shit before I choke to death."

"You're not done with that."

"I'm fucking done with it."

"Fine." Sam goes across the hall to the bathroom to rinse everything out, first scrubbing his hands in scalding hot water.

"I just fucking do it, Sam," Dean calls from the other room. "I do the best I can and so far I'm not dead. "

"_So far_," Sam emphasizes, shaking the moisture off the neb's various parts and beginning to piece it back together. "The guy suffocated, Dean. Do we really want to go chasing after something that spontaneously suffocates his victims?"

"You're right. It might squeeze the life out of my delicate lungs."

"Exactly."

"Shut the fuck up, Sam."

"Well," Sam says, coming back into the room and sitting next to Dean on the bed. "It's a valid point."

"If it was going after the weakest link, don't you think it would have killed me already? We have no idea what happened, Sam. You're just lookin' for excuses."

"I'm being practical, Dean." Sam opens a single dose of pulmozyme, squeezes it into the nebulizer cup and replaces the mask with a mouthpiece. "You ready to sit up?"

"No."

"Come on. Nice and slow."

Sitting Dean up is a long and tedious process. Halfway through Sam scrambles up behind his brother and leans him against his chest, allowing Dean a moment to catch his breath. "We still don't even know if it was supernatural. I could have been standing under an air conditioning vent."

"That's why we're breaking into Nate's apartment soon as we're done here."

"Right. After we're done with this you're going on oxygen and it's naptime."

"You don't have to do this," Dean says. His voice is going hoarse from the medication. "I can do this by myself."

"No you can't," Sam says. "No you fucking can't."

Dean laughs a sad little laugh. "You really think after twenty-six fucking years that I'm still in denial? I know how sick I am, Sam. I know _exactly _how sick I am, believe me, I know it a hell of a lot better than you do."

"Then _why, _Dean?" Sam finds himself nearly shouting, though his mouth is mere inches from Dean's ear. "Why are you only happy when you're doing the most dangerous shit in the universe?"

Dean's back vibrates with laughter. "Cause getting thrown against walls helps me cough shit up."

"I don't think that's funny."

Dean's face is turned so that Sam can't see his expression, but he feels his brother's back stiffen in seriousness.

"Don't worry, Sammy," he says, "someday I won't have a choice. Someday real soon I'll be too sick to fucking move and then you can tuck me away nice and safe in a hospice somewhere. But not today. Today I'm gonna kill a fucking fugly so I can get the hell out of here. You can do it with me or not."

He says it lightly but there's no mistaking the venom, the bitterness in his voice. He drops the mouthpiece on the bed, reaches for his spit cup, leans forward and begins to huff with violence, practically growling, as if righteous indignation is going to help the shit come up faster.

Sam goes practically blind with anger but starts to pound his brother on the back anyway.

"I'm not letting you do this alone, you stupid fucking asshole," he says. It's supposed to come out just as bitter, just as contemptuous as Dean sounded moments ago. But instead his voice is soft and it cracks and he sounds like a scared little boy.

:::

To be continued.

Please do not forget to feed the beast (she eats reviews) :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Note: Thank you, anon reviewers! *smoochies* **

And to RyanHeart: I really appreciate your feedback-- it means a lot. Thank you so much for the kind words, and if there are any aspects you think I should include, please feel free to email me.

**PART EIGHT**

He tried to say something.

There was a chance but then he wasn't moving.

So he waits.

He'll get it right.

He has all the time in the world.

***

Honestly? Dean didn't tell Sam the whole truth.

First of all, he only woke up one time while he was dying. Before that all he remembers is falling face first into fetid water.

He and Dad were in a middle of a hunt, some kind of haunted cabin, couple of skeletons that needed burning. It had been raining for five days and the cellar was flooded up to their knees, so of course that's where the bodies were.

Dean got pegged with a flying propane tank. When he woke up everything smelled like hospital and his throat was filmy with the aftertaste of a breathing tube. There was pain everywhere and he was pretty sure they'd removed his lung completely or that his chest had simply become a solid mass, nothing inside but heavy, airless tissue. He was panting in unpredictable sips; it was all he could manage.

There was a nurse, or an aide maybe, sitting with him. He was sad to see she was female, because flirting and being charming and brave was fucking exhausting. He didn't have to try so hard when it was just a couple of dudes taking care of him. He could go ahead and just be sick.

"Try to stay awake a little longer," she said. "I'm sure your dad will be back soon. Just a little longer."

"Dying?" Dean heaved.

"You're very ill, honey."

He couldn't see very well, not when it was so hard to breathe, but he could still make out the woman's I'm-witnessing-a-tragedy expression.

"Dying," he croaked again, maybe answering his own question.

He felt a hand on his forehead. "It's okay, honey, if you can't wait. Your dad will understand. It's okay."

She was giving him permission to die. Holy shit, she was giving him permission to die and Dad wasn't coming. He knew that. So he drifted, daydreamed about killing the demon, finally closed his eyes for what he assumed was the last time.

He wasn't scared like he thought he'd be. His mind didn't loop cloudy memories of each and every one of his regrets like he thought it would. He didn't reflect on all the things he'd never gotten to do. He didn't ask God why he had to die young.

He was just tired. He was tired and he wished Sammy was with him.

Then, in a blink, he was awake again.

"Dean," a male nurse was shouting mere inches from his face. "Wake up. My name is Dean, too. How are you feeling?"

"Gonna live," Dean said, pleased to discover his lungs felt somewhat operational.

"Absolutely, dude. You made a pretty miraculous recovery. It's been three weeks since the last time you woke up."

"Feel like shit."

"Well trust me, you're doing much better."

"My dad?"

Dean the nurse stiffened. "You have to understand, Dean. Your situation was... it didn't look like you were going to recover. We suggested he say his goodbyes."

"Did he?"

"He said he had an emergency, that he absolutely had to go."

"My little brother--"

"Your brother is fine," Dean-the-nurse said with a smile. "Your dad told us that'd be your first question."

If Dean had had the lung capacity, he would have sighed in relief.

"Your brother a CFer as well?"

"No."

"Just protective, huh?"

"Dad-- he say goodbye?"

Nurse Dean nodded, maybe a little too eagerly. "Of course. Of course he did. He even left you something."

The nurse came back a short time later with an envelope. Dean wasn't sure what he hoped it would say. _This is all a big practical joke. My son the fighter. You've made me proud. Sammy is sitting in the waiting room. He's coming home. I love you._

What it said was _Impala, parking garage on 5th and Hill, just in case. I'll kill it. For both of us. _

***

What Dean would really love to do is sleep. All day. His lungs are sore as hell, throat torn up, back still throbbing. But he only has five, maybe ten minutes till he's done inhaling his antibiotic. And then it's time to get up, end of story. He's allowed himself one pain pill and that's gonna have to do. He can't be all fucking groggy. Not on the hunt.

Sam's laying next to him on the bed with his laptop on his stomach, but he has nodded off, mouth slack, one hand still hovering over the track pad. For some stupid reason Dean's always liked to watch his brother sleep. It makes him feel oddly content to observe how good Sam's color is, even with a beaten up face, how big and healthy and alive he's grown up to be, how easily he moves air.

He's just switching off the neb when Sam's phone jingles. It's dad.

"Dad it's Dean."

"Son. How are you feeling? The truth."

"I'm uh... today's been a little rough."

"Meaning what?"

"My spine. Listen, Dad--"

"You resting?"

"Yes sir. How's the--"

"Where's your brother?"

"Sleeping. Did you--"

"You tell him to call me when he wakes up. And stay in bed."

"Sir--"

"Stay in bed, Dean."

"Yeah okay," Dean says, and hangs up. He drags himself to the edge of his bed and tries to stretch out his back a bit, coughs hard and painful and curses when he sees a spray of blood across his palm. Coughing out a little blood now and then is par for the course, it happens, but if Sam sees-- he still freaks out every single fucking time, because for Sam a few droplets of blood is _always _going to become a major bleed.

Holding his hand out in front him so he doesn't accidently smear it on anything, Dean makes his way to the bathroom and turns on the water as hot as he can tolerate. He rinses his hand, undresses and stands with his head bowed, letting the spray beat down on the top of his head. The soap has disappeared from the shower, there's nothing but some kind of pomegranate mango scented body wash and a couple of multi-colored loofahs. He squeezes some of the body wash in his hand. It's got weird little beads in it (_Relaxing exfoliating oxygen orbs! _the bottle announces proudly_), _and maybe it's a bad idea to use the shit but oh well. Lathering it in his hands, he gently cleans around his G-tube, then moves slowly around the rest of his body, wrinkling his nose at the sickly sweet smell.

His lungs still sound a little spongy so he tries to huff and spit a little more. It hurts, and he wants to stop, but that's how it ends-- one day you're just too tired to cough it up, and then the next day too, and before you know the disease is way out ahead of you and you'll never catch up.

He gets dressed and goes back into the bedroom, where Sam is beginning to stir. He groans, yawns mightily, then opens his eyes and looks at Dean. "You all done?"

"Yeah."

"How's your back?"

"I'm ready to go, Sam. What'd you find out about King?"

"Um..." Sam hits the space bar to wake up his laptop. "Jason Queensend. According to the local paper, he drives a forklift down at the cannery. Twenty-six years old. Played football in high school. No known health issues. Priors include sexual misconduct, DUI, possession with intent, public indecency. Cops haven't named a cause of death yet, but they're waiting on a toxicology report."

"Sounds like a real prize. You find out where Nate is?"

"Yeah-- this girl Jess works with." Sam yawns lazily, stretching his arms over his head. "Dean, are you sure--"

"--Sam. Let's go."

***

Jess stands in the doorway and stares at them for a moment. Here they are again, Sam and Dean, on her friend Amy's doorstep dressed in nice button-down shirts. Sam's face is still swollen and discolored, Dean is pale but obviously doing his best to look well.

"What are you doing here?" She says.

Sam seems just as shocked to see her, and his bottom lip moves up and down but nothing comes out.

Dean clears his throat. "We need to talk to Nate. It's important."

He sounds so entitled when he says it that for a split second Jess allows herself to hate him, and not really for disrupting her life or wanting to bother a grieving man--but for whatever the fuck he did to make Sam want to forget his own brother existed.

But that's just her being totally ridiculous-- in the hours that she's been stewing since her fight with Sam, her brain has tried to find a away to make this all Dean's fault. Surely Sam wasn't running away from his brother's illness because he couldn't handle it. No one is that selfish, are they? Surely Dean was some kind of major asshole, maybe he hit Sam or humiliated him continuously in front of his friends or touched him inappropriately or--

God.

Luckily Sam interrupts her thoughts.

"We brought him a bottle. His favorite whiskey. Please, Jess. He was my friend, too."

_No he wasn't_, she wants to say. _You can't stand the guy_. But she nods and opens the door and lets them in.

"He's in Amy's room. He's really upset so don't..."

"Don't what?"

She can't believe she's about to say this to _Sam, _ of all people , but-- "don't bully him."

Sam looks affronted, an argument on the tip of his tongue, but in the end he nods and goes down the hall to Amy's room by himself, leaving Dean to linger by the door. Jess is tempted to let him just stand there, but his hand wanders to his stomach and he closes his eyes and swallows hard. He's in pain.

"Dean," she says, "you wanna sit?"

He nods, taking a spot on the sofa across from where Amy is sitting with the TV remote in her hand, a bowl of popcorn on her lap.

_This life be over soon, _Miss Celie says on the screen, _heaven lasts always. _

She pauses the movie.

"Is that Whoopi?" Dean asks.

_"_Yeah," Amy says, "this movie is _so _sad."

He nods politely. The silence drags on for so long that Jess is about to tell Amy to press play, like background noise is going to make the situation less awkward.

"Jess," Dean says, watching his thumbs twiddle in his lap. "Um. I'm, uh, I'm sorry about the other day. I--"

"--it's okay. Really."

Dean nods, but doesn't seem convinced. "It's just. Sometimes when I'm not feeling.... you know." His eyes flick toward Amy. He's very open about his illness, from what she's seen, but that doesn't mean he wants to launch into it in the presence of a total stranger.

"Really," she says, smiling. "It's okay."

"So your Sam's big brother, huh?" Amy says. She can't stand tension. Never could.

"Yep," Dean says with a proud smile that even manages to halfway charm Jess. "I got all the handsome genes, poor kid."

"Ha! So are you just visiting, or...?"

"Yeah. Visiting."

"Awesome."

Dean brings his fist to his mouth and stifles a cough. "So, uh... you guys heard anything? About what happened to King?"

Amy rolls her eyes and shoves a handful of popcorn in her mouth. "My boyfriend Brandon? He interns at the San Francisco Chronicle, and some newbie at the coroner's office told him the guy had enough coke in his system to kill Lindsay Lohan."

"Jesus, Amy." Jess swats her on the arm.

"OW... well? He did!" She lowers her voice to a hiss. "I'm sorry Nate's upset but King was a total dick."

"Amy--"

"A dick?" Dean says, perking up. "What makes you say that?"

"Well the guy was like, _old_. Why do you think he was always invited to campus parties? Not cause anyone liked him, that's for damn sure."

"Then why?"

"To make it snow."

"To make it snow? "

"He was a coke dealer," Jess supplies.

"A coke dealer with a taste for poor naive freshman girls," Amy adds. She shrugs at Jess. "Fuck not speaking ill of the dead. He was gross."

Dean smiles at her, clearly amused by her bluntness. "So they think he died of an overdose?"

"Totally. Brandon said he was so fucking coked out that both his lungs collapsed."

Dean's eyes get all wide when he hears this, but then his face quickly goes blank just as Sam reappears. He stops in the doorway and exchanges a series of mysterious looks with his brother.

"Hey Amy," Dean smiles wide and toothy and nods his head at the sliding glass door by the television. "You want to a... show me the view?"

Amy smiles, which falls off her face the minute she remembers that she has a boyfriend. Then it must dawn on her what this is _really _about, because she looks at Jess for confirmation.

Jess's eyes flick over to Sam, who averts his gaze and shoves his hands in his pockets.

She nods. "It's alright. Go ahead."

When they're gone Jess turns to Sam and he's wearing that face, the one where every emotion he's ever felt in his entire life is pooling in his eyes. Once upon a time it made her melt; now she steels herself against it.

He plops down next to her on the sofa and sighs.

"Twenty-seven," he says.

"What?"

"Twenty-seven. That's how long he's supposed to live. When I came here, to Stanford, I didn't expect to see him again. That's why I lied to you."

"Sam. Jesus."

"I spent my whole life taking care of him." Sam's tone is soft and sad. "But you know how old I was when I found out that he was never gonna get better? That he was going to die? I was _sixteen. _My dad thought I was mature enough to take care of Dean, alone, for _weeks _at a time. But he didn't think I was mature enough to know what was really going on."

"Sam. People with Dean's--" She stops dead. Just because she looked it up-- that doesn't mean she gets to lecture him about how people with CF can lead long and full lives, about how some live into their forties and even older, because surely he already knows that.

Neither does she want to be one of those people who says lame shit like "he's a fighter" or "he won't give up so easily," especially when she has _no idea_ if he's a fighter, or how easily he gives up. For all she knows, he could be dying this very second out on the deck.

"It-- I'm not being fair," Sam continues. "He'd go months without getting really sick, sometimes. And he--he took care of me, too. He did. But I was always so _scared_, and he just gets worse, the older he gets, and my dad, jesus, my dad made my life hell."

He looks at her with those fucking eyes again, the face that makes her hurt, that makes her want to gather him up and smack him all at the same time. She reaches out, before she can stop herself, and hooks a section of his hair around his ear. The bags under his eyes--since when does Sam have bags under his eyes?-- are smudged and twinkling with tears.

"I'm listening, baby," she says.

"I guess... I guess I decided Dean was gonna die on my terms? I left, and I hitchhiked all the way here from South Carolina, and I was slow about it, it took me over a month. I gave myself that month and I mourned his death and when I got here? I was done. I decided he was already dead. I said goodbye. It was selfish and wrong and believe me, I hate myself for it. But there you go. That's why I lied to you."

Jess sits with this information for a minute. She can't pretend it doesn't freak her out. She loves Sam. To death. But that he would keep something from her that's so huge and so painful-- she turns to face him, though, and puts her hand on his jaw, and rubs her thumb back and forth against his cheekbone.

"Sam. I understand that this is really-- if you can't-- if we're going to... you just can't talk to me like that again. Ever."

"I'm sorry, Jess."

"I know."

"I can't just let him go off on his own though. I can't."

"He can stay for as long as he needs to, " she says, "he's your brother, he's always welcome, you know that. I just need you to talk to me about what's going on. What you plan to do."

Sam nods, looking down at his lap. He thinks about it for a long moment, his face crumpling again, that fresh wave of pain that always comes when you're crying about something forever unresolved. He wipes his nose on the heel of his hand. "Dean's-- he's doing this outpatient treatment up at the hospital. Some--some research study. He'll be done in a week, maybe two. When he's done I should be able to give him back to my dad. So just... come home, okay? Come home. Please."

_Give him back to my Dad. _Like Dean's an infant or a coveted family heirloom. And Sam still doesn't seem to understand that Dean isn't the problem--that lying is the problem, that knowing next to nothing about his past is the problem.

And her gut is telling her that he's still not being completely honest. But she wants to believe him. God, she wants to believe him so bad. Maybe it's a bad a idea. Maybe it's not right. Maybe she's walking into the middle of something just to get tossed right back out again. But she looks into those _fucking _eyes and knows she doesn't have a choice.

"Okay. Tomorrow," she says, giving his hands a squeeze. "I promised Amy we'd take Nate to some stupid thing tonight. But I'll be home tomorrow."

Sam nods and smiles with a shuddering breath.

OOOO

"Dean I'm telling you, this shit doesn't work." The EMF meter is spazzing in Sam's palm, beeping wildly, the needle whipping back and forth across the spectrum. "Did you make this yourself?"

"Just turn the goddamn thing off," Dean hisses, "Keep it down."

Sam shoves the still screaming meter into his jacket pocket, reflexively reaching out to help his brother over the police tape. But Dean launches himself over it and scales the stairs two at a time.

That's another thing about the illness-- sometimes Dean bounces back as quick as he falls. Whatever he did with Amy on the balcony put spots of color on his cheeks and he seems to be feeling good.

Dean pauses at the front door, only marginally out of breath, hands Sam their only gun and bends over the doorknob to pick the lock.

"So you're sure Nate isn't possessed?"

"He pounded four shots of Jack and holy water before I stopped him."

"What about the laughing? Horrible death of a good friend isn't my idea of funny."

"He says it happens, like a nervous thing. He was really torn up about it."

Dean pops the door open. "Are you sure you weren't just blinded by your endless compassion?"

Sam bristles. "Meaning what?"

"You sure that you weren't so concerned for the guy that you failed to notice he had a pile of hex bags on his night stand?"

"Goddamn it, Dean. The guy was totally broken up over this. Trust me. He's got nothing to do with it."

"Yeah okay." Dean turns and creeps into the dark apartment.

Sam chooses to let it go, for now. Right now they're in danger of getting killed by a someone or something.

There's not much to see in Nate's apartment, mostly garbage and platters of wilting fruit already buzzing with gnats. Beer cans strewn all over the place. A couple of the televisions are still on. Dean's kind of amazed by how big the apartment is without any people.

"Jesus. How does Nate afford this place?"

"His Dad affords it," Sam replies, swinging his flashlight to each corner of the room. "He's the CFO of Frito Lay or something."

"Huh. Check the meter."

Sam stows the flashlight between his knees and pulls out the EMF. Not surprisingly it begins to spazz again. He switches it off. "Nice work on this piece a shit, Dean."

"Shut up."

They both inch around the pool table, kneeling where King had died. The floor is sparkling with something white.

"Is that... sulfur?" Dean says, putting his fingers in the sparkles, then rubbing and holding it up to his nose.

"Wrong color." Sam pinches some up for himself. "You think it might be cocaine?"

Dean shrugs. "Only one way to find out." Before Sam can stop him, he bears his teeth and rubs a fingerful against his gums.

"Jesus, Dean!"

"Relax. Won't do nothing but numb my mouth." He smacks his lips. "Gross. Ugh. YUCK."

"What is it?" Sam's heart thunders in his chest. "Can you... what-- can you tell--"

"It's salt."

"Salt?" Sam dabs some of it on the end of his tongue and pulls a face. Dean is right. "Tastes weird, though. Dean why the hell...?"

Dean shakes his head. "I don't know."

They check out the rest of the apartment and find absolutely nothing. No more salt, sulfur, cold spots, nothing.

Sam throws up his arms, letting them fall back to his sides with a _slap. _"Well. Should we check out the body?"

"We'll have to wait a few hours." Dean says, glancing at his watch, "it's only five-thirty."

"You should probably cool it for a while anyway."

Dean shoots him a deadly glare but it doesn't last long because they both know he's getting tired, that he's still in pain, that if he doesn't rest a little he won't have the energy to protest. They walk home in silence except for Dean's chesty breathing. The sun is low in the sky but shines irritatingly bright.

When they get home Dean heads immediately to the bedroom, shedding his jacket. Sam follows with a handful of enzymes.

"Take these," he says, slapping them into Dean's palm. "I'm gonna give you a feeding while you sleep. I'll wake up you up around nine for treatments."

Dean nods. He tosses the pills into his mouth and swallows them all dry in one gulp, then lays back and throws his arm over his eyes. "Don't let me sleep all night. We really need to do this."

"We'll see how you feel."

"We're going, Sam." Dean fiddles with his watch--setting an alarm, judging by the beeping noises. "Turn off the light."

"You want oxygen?"

"No."

"Dean--"

"Sam. Just turn off the light?"

Sam turns off the light. Even as he watches Dean drift to sleep, though, Sam finds himself unable to leave the room. That feeling creeps over him again. _Dean's okay, _Sam reassures himself. _He's fine. He's okay. _

It isn't until his phone jingles and vibrates in his pocket that he ducks out of the bedroom, reading the screen. Dad.

"Dad."

"Sammy. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

A brief silence. "How is school?"

"It's amazing," Sam replies sourly. "I've never been happier."

Dad either doesn't catch his tone or chooses to ignore it. "I won't be in contact for a while. I'm close, son. To finding it."

"Congratulations."

Dad pauses again, maybe deciding if the infamous lecture on respecting and honoring thy father is worth repeating. Sam childishly thinks _I dare you to _as his heart begins to _thud thud thud_ in his chest. His father's lucky he can't jump through the phone.

"It's important that you make sure you brother stays with you," Dad says, "If you can't take care of him, you need to make sure he gets to Jim's. I can't have him trying to follow me. His health-- it's too dangerous ."

Sam snorts humorless laughter_. _"Dangerous to what? Your little quest for revenge? You must have been so disappointed when you found out he was still alive."

There's a dangerous silence on the other line. "You remember who you're talking to, son. I'm your father, you will not --"

"How the fuck could you leave Dean to die alone, Dad? How could you do that?"

"Sam. I did what your brother wanted. He _begged _me --"

"You don't give a-- all he wants is your approval, Dad. He's dead set on this stupid fucking suicide mission, and all to make you--"

"Sam, I don't have time for--"

"-- you have time, Dad. You have a hell of lot more time than he does. Can't you just... _leave it, _just for a couple years, be a father to your son?"

He hears his father's breath quicken. "You're just as guilty as I am. Who walked away first? Who abandoned Dean first?"

"You're just pissed because you lost your free babysitting!" Sam roars. "You're pissed because for once in your goddamn life you couldn't punt him off on me! You almost got him _killed_."

"Sam you listen to me--" Dad begins, but Sam never gets to hear what he says, because the phone is ripped out his hand and thrown across the room before he knows what happened.

He's shoved swiftly against the wall and Dean's face is just inches from his. Dean has a tight grip on the lapels of his coat and his fists are trembling. His breath smells of medication. His face is raw and wet and angry.

"Free babysitting?" He says, his voice cracking. "First you pretend I'm dead and now... " He trails off, studies Sam's eyes real closely, like he's looking at something both perplexing and repulsive.

_I'm sorry oh fuck you weren't suppose to hear_ _how did you know I told Jess you were dead because-- _

Itall tries to come out of Sam's mouth at the same time. He gets caught up in the look on Dean's face, though, god it's terrible, he's seen his brother in ten kinds of agony but that _look._

Dean releases him and tears his jacket off the chair in the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Sam finally manages to say. "Shit, I'm sorry. Where are you going?"

He says it to dead air, though, because Dean has already slammed the door behind him.

::::

To be continued.


	9. Chapter 9

**Note:** Sorry about the delayed update. Lots of RL business got in the way. The next update will not take so long, I promise. *kissies*

PART NINE

You're just a kid and you know there's something about your big brother that's different, that people always pet him like he's sad and touch his forehead and then his cheek and then his shoulder and tell him he looks well in a too-cheerful voice.

When he gets sick everything goes silent. Dad wants you to sit in his lap so he can rock you while you watch cartoons. When he rocks you he smells like whiskey. You like the attention but it also makes you feel weird, scared, like Dad is holding onto you because something bad's gonna happen.

Sometimes Dean's coughing keeps you awake night. Sometimes he curls up in a ball and sweats and makes little whining noises that don't sound like him at all. There's always a trashcan by the bed because sometimes he throws up and it smells awful and that keeps you awake, too.

Most of the time, though, you shoot BB guns with Dean and go swimming with Dean and practice playing pool with Dean and you don't think about it much. You stay with Uncle Bobby a lot, run around in the junk yard and play with the dogs, by yourself, until till dark.

When you get a little older you're allowed to visit Dean when he goes to the hospital for tune ups. It's like when Dad has to fiddle around all day under the hood of the Impala, except instead it's nurses fiddling around all day with Dean. They attach him to bags of clear liquid and suck boogers out of his nose with a blue plastic bulb. They make him inhale stuff that makes his voice go away, make him blow into a big plastic thing until his face turns red and he coughs and coughs and coughs. Four times a day a male nurse in a paper apron and rubber gloves and a surgical mask comes in and he hits Dean on the back a lot harder than Dad does.

The hospital stays aren't bad, not when you're younger. Dean's usually too tired to act like a jackass, he stops making fun your hair and calling you a girl. Sometimes he just lays there with his eyes open half-mast, swallowing. Sometimes he sleeps and sleeps and you get to play Nintendo, quietly, all by yourself. You're determined to beat him at F-Zero but you never do.

Then you're eleven and watching TV when the motel phone rings. Dad answers and listens and hangs up and turns to you and says get the fuck in the car. You and Dad drive down to the high school to find your brother sitting on the sidewalk and there's blood everywhere. It's all over his mouth and hands and arms and in the street and all over his only suit and he's still spitting it up in big red waves. His date is long gone but Derek's girlfriend Jennifer Higgins is there screaming _my dad's seats my dad's seats my dad's seats_.

During the surgery to fix his bleeding lung, you ask Dad if Dean is going to die. He says no, finish your goddamn chicken nuggets.

Dean always begs Dad to let him go hunting, even though more often than not he ends up sick. Sometimes he'll come back with a concussion or a cold or a broken arm and you have to stay up all night so you can wake him up every two hours or give him pain medication or make sure he doesn't have a fever.

The same year Dean coughed up all that blood, he decides to throw a party and gets so drunk and so sick that he doesn't know who he is anymore. He drops to his knees and pukes all over your shoes and then in your lap and you don't even flinch because it's not the first time. You make all his friends leave and take off all his pukey clothes and wipe him down with a hot rag and give him his medication and the following Monday you flunk a math test and miss soccer practice, again, and he doesn't even say thank you.

He never says thank you, just smacks you upside the head and acts like he has no idea why you're so afraid.

Then you're sixteen and find out that Dad was lying, Dean _is _going to die. Nobody knows when, but it'll be sooner rather than later, and Dean makes you a promise he probably can't keep, especially since all he does is hunt and make himself sick and hunt and make himself sick and hunt and make himself sick.

You wish you could show him a picture of what he looked like that day, sitting on that sidewalk covered in blood. You wish you could hold the picture up and say _look at all this blood. You already look like a corpse. _

***

Free babysitting.

Dean stomps blindly to the end of the block and flings himself over a fence because it's the only way he'll outrun Sam, because he doesn't want to hear how Sam didn't mean it and how he's sorry and how this is all Dad's fault and how Sam really doesn't mind taking care of Dean, really really really really, blah blah blah.

Because it won't be the first and probably not the last time they've had this conversation: I'm sorry I get pissed, Dean, I just wish you'd take better care of yourself, it's hard to watch you suffer, it doesn't get any easier, I just want to you to take care of yourself take care of yourself take care of yourself take care of yourself--

Free fucking babysitting.

It's not long before his lungs are burning, expanding and collapsing stubbornly like they're glued one wall to another. He picks a clean part of the sidewalk and throws himself down, leaning with his back against a retaining wall, silently begging his throat to stay open and his lungs not to seize up like they always seem to do when he's extra super fucking _pissed_, just this once, just this fucking once.

He fumbles in his pocket for his rescue inhaler, which he still has, thank god, because Sammy's probably on guard at the Impala waiting for him to stumble home and there's no fucking way, _no fucking way _he's going back. He takes more puffs than he should, maybe because he thinks he needs it, maybe just because no one's around to lecture him about taking too many, about not using a spacer, about how sometimes he just needs to wait, see if he can catch his breath.

The sun is gone and it's a cold night. His back is freezing, his ass even colder. He tries to concentrate on that, rather than the pain in his chest, the tickle in the back of his throat that means he's going to cough soon and probably not stop for a while.

He took care of himself, when he was alone. Sure, the vest and the flutter were lonely replacements for a set of expert hands. Without coaching he sometimes forgot, got tired, couldn't muster up the energy to work at it long enough to clear his lungs. But he dealt with it. Survived.

He took his time driving to Stanford. Instead of going down through Reno he drove west all the way to I-5, through half of Washington, all of Oregon. Spent a week in Redding, eating In-and-Out Burger three times a day, lounging around in a halfway decent hotel room trying to rest up, trying to shake off that I-almost-died feeling. Reacquainting himself with the outside world, relearning how to talk to people who didn't wear scrubs.

Maybe he should just do what Sam really wants. Watch TV all day and go to doctor's appointments and bitch about medications, infections, fatigue. Sam could escort him to support groups with a big fat self-satisfied grin on his smug fucking face, he could push Dean in a fucking wheelchair, plaid blanket on his lap and everything, and Sam could wear an oversized tee-shirt reading WORLD'S BEST MOTHERFUCKING BABYSITTER.

That's pretty much what was supposed to happen, when Sam announced bitterly that he was going to away to college. Because you bet your ass Dad had it all planned out, finally had the big grand exit strategy he'd always been searching for--Dean was gonna find some cheap apartment in Palo Alto, live off his disability checks and when he got sick Sam would drop everything to care for him.

_You have a responsibility to your brother, _Dad roared at Sam, after he ran out of threats, after he'd monologued himself hoarse about Saving People, Hunting Things.

Honestly Dean had kind of agreed with Sam on that one. It sure sounded like a shit deal.

_But still,_ he thinks, _I'll show you fucking free babysitting. _

His throat tickles again. He leans forehead and inhales the biggest breath he can manage and lets the cough come.

Sometimes it seems like it's never going to stop. There's no time to take a breath in between and yet he keeps hacking and hacking and hacking until the airlessness makes him gag, which doesn't stop it either, the gagging and the coughing just merge together until his vision tunnels and when it's finally over it doesn't seem to make sense that he's still alive.

He doesn't know how much time passes, really, just that the coughing is over and he's got a mouthful of warm, hot liquid. He turns his head to one side, spits it out, and isn't all that surprised to see that it's mostly blood, bright shiny red blood, a sizeable puddle.

Great. Just fucking great.

"Holy shit are you alright?" a voice says. Dean looks up and sees a guy, maybe a few years older than himself, tossing his bicycle to the ground.

The guy is wearing a tracksuit with long threads of reflective tape running up and down the arms and thighs and one of those space-aged tapered helmets. He approaches Dean but stops just short of the blood.

"You need help?"

It could be nothing, the blood-- could be because Sam has him doing treatments three times a day instead of once or twice or not all like when he was with Dad, like when he was on his way to Stanford after the hospital. Could be stress. Or being sm_o_thered. Or who knows, maybe Sam and Jess have been feeding him broken glass.

"I'm fine," Dean says. "I..." But how the hell do you explain in five words or less that it isn't that unusual? So he waves a dismissive hand instead. "Don' t worry about it."

"Is there someone I can call for you?" The man says, fidgeting, eyes darting back and forth from the blood to Dean.

Fucking good Samaritans.

"My brother is coming," Dean says. "Don't worry about it."

And the irritating thing is that it's true. His brother will come. Will find him.

The man shrugs, mounts his bike, and pedals away.

Dean should stand up, keep walking. Back towards his car. Maybe back toward Sam. Maybe to kick Sam's ass. Maybe to fall into Sam's arms and whine about how he doesn't feel good because that's what Sam really wants, isn't it?

Maybe to sheepishly admit that perhaps killing the demon is too ambitious, that destroying whatever killed King, that coked-out douche bag fuck, will be Dean's last hurrah before he drives away, drives until he runs out of gas and wherever that is will be where he puts a fucking gun in his mouth and frees Sam and Dad of his suffering, _their _suffering, and maybe just to have the last word he'll leave a note saying _Guess what being like this sucked for me too. _

"Christ, Dean," he says aloud. "Jesus _fucking _christ."

He allows himself one solid punch at the sidewalk, hard enough that it hurts like a fucking bitch but not hard enough to crack his knuckles open.

And then he's over it, he's out the door of his obscenely grandiose fucking pity party before the puking and fighting and window breaking starts. Because fuck that.

Derek said something to him once. _Self-pity will drown you faster than the disease. _

Fuck him, Dean had thought once. Fuck that preachy dead fuck.

But he was right. He's gotta go back, dispense with the drama, because people are dying.

So he starts to get up, but it's like something is holding him down, like he hasn't got an ounce of energy left in his bones. The pain in his lungs lingers sharp and steady so he has to keep his breathing rapid and shallow. His heart rate spikes. Too much albuterol. Too much running. Not enough rest.

There's no way he's getting up off the ground. No fucking way.

***

Sam knows there's no point, really, in chasing after him. It will just make Dean more angry. He should just let his brother cool off and come back on his own.

But the air is unnaturally biting cold tonight, like a spirit has wrapped itself around the campus. And Dean might've run too far. He might have pushed himself too hard. He might be laying somewhere gasping for air, flopping on the sidewalk like a fish on a riverbank, very literally hacking up a lung, contracting SARS--

So Sam goes. He knows exactly where his brother's warpath will take him. He can practically see the ghost of Dean's footprints on the ground before him. To the end of the block. Over the fence.

He finds Dean on the sidewalk with his back against a retaining wall, knees drawn up, face hidden in the cross of his arms. He slows down, hesitates, then finally drops to his knees and curls one hand around the nape of his brother's neck. Dean's breathing rapidly, wheezing badly. Sam notices the puddle of blood, shiny and solid-looking like plastic in the fading daylight, and tries not to panic. His main concern getting Dean to calm down and making sure he stays that way.

"Dean," he says, keeping his voice low. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Dean's voice is muffled by his arms. "Nothing. Get the fuck away from me, Sam."

Sam nods though his brother can't see him. He runs his hand up and down Dean's spine. He tries to keep the nag out of his voice. "The blood, Dean. If you're bleeding bad--"

"Not hospital bad. I swear to fucking God, Sam, if you--"

"--Okay, okay. I won't argue. Just tell me you're alright."

Dean half-heartedly nods his head. It looks more like he's wiping his nose on his sleeve. "This isn't how I get my rocks off, Sam. This _sucks._"

"I know, Dean."

"The fuck you do." Dean lifts his head. His eyes are slanted with anger, blurred with tears, vaguely hysterical. "You need to get the fuck over yourself."

"Dean--"

"--you're the one holding me hostage here, Sam. I tried to leave."

"Dean--"

"Poor Sammy the fucking martyr. Gave up his whole life and happiness to care for his pathetic dying brother."

"I am sorry, Dean. I didn't mean it. Goddamn it... you know I didn't mean it."

Dean hides his face again. He's breathing too damned fast, stopping only to choke on dry, short, unproductive coughs.

It's the asthma, which honestly scares Sam more than the CF, sometimes, because of the rapid onset, the unpredictably, how seems to concurrently mirror and mock Dean's stress levels.

"Dean. Are you--"

"It's fine. Back off." Dean coughs again. "I can't get up."

"What?"

"I can't get up. This isn't fun, Sam. This isn't my idea of a fucking party."

"Dean. I know. You're not..." Sam gives up and hooks his arm around his brother's back and pulls at him. Dean sags easily into his arms and Sam squeezes him unnecessarily hard around the shoulders. "I was just pissed. I didn't mean it. I like making sure you're okay. Okay? I like helping you."

Dean snorts bitter laughter_._"Sam that's not-- you don't have a--" He huffs and lets his forehead fall hard on Sam's shoulder. "That's your whole fucking problem, Sam. I try do anything for myself... you get fucking hysterical."

"Speaking of hysterical," Sam says, because he refuses to get into it with Dean, not now. "Why don't we try some slow, deep breaths?"

"Christ, Sam," Dean mutters, but his next inhale is deliberately more controlled.

There's still blood around his mouth. Sam wipes it away with his shirtsleeve.

"I should be better by now," Dean says. "I feel like shit. I should be better by now. It's been almost a month."

Sam sighs. He burrows his hand between the flaps of Dean's jacket and rubs back and forth on his chest. Dean doesn't protest or demand that he stop, only huffs out a reluctant breath.

"This might be your new normal," Sam says quietly. "You know that."

It might not be the greatest time to beat his brother over the head with the truth, but positivity or patronizing will just make Dean more angry.

"I know," Dean says, "You think I don't fucking know that?"

Sam stops the smoothing motion of his hand, letting it rest above Dean's heart. "Come on. Let's go home. We'll pass out for a while, get back on this hunt."

"Sam I can't--"

"--yes you can, wuss. Come on." He hauls Dean to his feet, supporting him around the shoulders. "Okay?"

Dean takes a deep, wheezy breath and steadies himself. "Okay."

They walk, nice and slow. Sam suspects Dean's okay to walk on his own but he keeps a hold of him anyway.

It's not long before things get too silent.

"Dean," he tries, one last time, "I want to know that you to believe me. Dad just-- I didn't mean it. I really didn't."

"Forget it, Sam."

"I _like _taking care of you, okay? You're my brother."

Dean stops dead. "Goddamn it, Sam, this..." His dismisses his thought with a sharp flail of his arms. "Fine. I forgive you, okay? Forgiven. Let's just do this goddamn case."

Sam looks up at the moon. He shouldn't push it, not after beating the shit out of a nerve that was already so raw.

"Okay," he says. "But we're talking about this later."

"The fuck we are."

_Yes, we are,_ Sam thinks. But he keeps this mouth shut.

***

Jess barely gets the key in the door, she's shaking so bad. The apartment is dark and quiet. She pokes her head in the bedroom, sees the brothers asleep together in the bed and no, she absolutely doesn't feel a stab of jealously, absolutely not. Because that would be ridiculous.

Sam is laying uncovered on his stomach, one arm bunched around the tuft of blanket he's using as a pillow, the other arm hanging off the edge of the bed.

Dean's under the blankets, wearing his oxygen, elevated by carefully arranged pillows, almost sitting, his hands folded together like someone posed him that way in his sleep. Like sick people in soap operas lie dying in cramped hospital beds. Next to him, on the IV pole, is a bag of beige liquid attached to a tube that disappears under the blankets.

Well, she hates to interrupt their darling little slumber, but--

"SAM. Wake up."

If she hadn't heard him snoring a second ago, she wouldn't have believed he was sleeping. He's instantly awake and sitting.

"Shhh," He hisses. "Dean doesn't feel well."

He gets up and ushers her out the bedroom door, closing it behind him. "Why are you-- what's wrong?"

She practically throws herself at him, relieved when he wraps his arms around her without hesitation.

"We took Nate to this stupid karaoke bar," Jess says, "Amy and I. She thought it would help because he's been so mopey. Well, there was this guy there, and-- and it happened again."

Sam pushes her away, holds her at arm's length. "What happened?"

"Just like King. This guy, another friend of Nate's-- he just fell on the floor, started choking. God it was fucking _horrible._"

And it was. The horrible noises he made, almost like he was angry. It sends fresh waves of tears to her eyes.

But Sam's mind appears to be somewhere else. His eyes are searching the floor.

"Is he dead?" He asks. "The guy?"

"I don't-- almost. They were working on him. Took him away in ambulance. God, and Nate was so--"

"--so they'd probably stash him in the hospital morgue," Sam mutters, more to himself than to her. "What was his name?"

She blinks at him. "Morgue? Sam, what...?"

"His name, Jessica. What was his name?"

"Um. Brand. Brand Weaver. Everyone called him the Warden-- why?"

Sam chews at his lower lip. "Nothing. Look, Jess." he pauses, like he's working something out in his head. "My brother... I-- I think I probably need to take him in. To the hospital. He's really feeling like crap."

"O--okay."

"We'll be back tomorrow morning," he says, going back into the bedroom. "I want you to stay here, don't go anywhere, don't answer the door, don't talk to anyone."

"What? Why?"

Sam doesn't answer, he's busy shaking Dean awake. Dean bats him away without opening his eyes.

"Sammy _fuck off,_" he croaks.

Jess has that feeling again, that Sam is nothing but full of shit. But Dean seems ill enough. His voice is torn to shreds.

"Dean look at me," Sam says, a weird urgency in his voice.

Dean cracks open one eye, then the other.

"Jess came home early so we're going to take you to the hospital now, alright?"

Dean's eyebrows knit like he's got no idea what Sam's talking about. All Jess can see is the back of Sam's head, but she watches Dean watching his brother's face.

"Yeah okay," Dean says, hugging himself around his middle and coughing.

Sam throws back the blankets and detaches the feeding tube from the button on Dean's stomach.

"Sam, let me--"

The liquid drips on Sam's hands. He curses and drapes the tube over the rim of the trashcan near the bed.

"_Dude_," Dean repeats, his tone much stronger. "We're suppose to at least attempt to keep that sterile."

"Why? You've got piles of this shit in the trunk."

"That's my last gravity bag."

"I saw a pump."

"I don't like the pump."

"So we'll wash it. Come on. Up."

Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed but continues to grumble. "You can't wash-- I've _puked _in that garbage can. More than once."

"Shut it. Where're your boots? We gotta go."

"In the corner." Dean's eyes flick nervously to Jess as he removes the oxygen and pulls on a shirt. He smiles winningly at her, and she smiles back. "Sam. Isn't there-- isn't there uh... some other way?"

"No." Sam is kneeling on the floor near the bed now. He pops one of Dean's boots on his foot. "Like what?"

"I don't know, I just-- HEY. Can I lace my own fuckin' boots please?"

"Dean," Sam's eyes widen meaningfully at his brother, "Don't scream. You're sick."

Dean irritably shakes his head, but he says, in a calm voice dripping with tension: "Sammy. I'd prefer not to go back to the hospital so soon."

" Such is the tragedy of your illness," Sam replies absently, digging his backpack out from under the bed and dumping everything out of it--school books, pens, notebooks, everything.

"Maybe so," Dean says sharply. "But you know my_ insurance _isn't very good. I'd really rather not. There must be something else we can do."

"Dean," Sam says, just as edgy and his smile toxic, "Get your fuckin' jacket on, cause you're sick and you're going to the hospital."

"I'm coming with you," Jess interrupts, unexpectedly loud. She didn't mean to just blurt it out, but the brothers flinch and turn to her, she finally has their attention, so she squares her shoulders and continues. "There's no fucking way I'm staying here by myself."

Sam hands his brother the backpack. "Put what we'll need in there. Meet you by the car."

Dean nods and leaves.

"Jess, look. I know you're--"

"No. No you fucking don't. I just watched a guy practically drop dead. Out of nowhere. And he was blue and and and and _floppy _and he he he made this _noise--_ I don't want to be alone."

"Jessica. My brother--"

"I just want to come with you. That's all, that's _it." _

"Jess." His hands close around her shoulders. "You can't. It's too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Jessica spits. "At the fucking hospital? Sam you're lying. You're full of shit."

"Jess--"

"Sam, if you can't do this one thing for me. I don't know if..." She falters, unable to say it and scared shitless that she actually means it. She'll leave him. For good.

He must see it on her face, because he works his jaw, thinking on it for a moment before finally nodding. "Okay. Come on. Let's go."

::::

To be continued.


	10. Chapter 10

**Note: **Thank you to selecasharp and spn_mamma for helping me research hemoptysis and various hospital procedures.

**PART TEN**

_i fuckin hate u_

_We have a fresh corpse. Can't pass up the chance. _

_how the fuck r we gonna get awy frm her?_

_I'll figure something out. _

_dont even have insurance n CA n my real name _

_I'll tell her you're my step brother._

_not first name either _

_Then what name?_

_dont remember card in trunk cant find it_

_Then you'll have more bills for your collection. Who cares?_

_im given thm your address n phone_

_Don't you dare._

_then what_

_IDK. Make something up. _

_dick_

Dean slams his phone shut and returns his hand to the steering wheel.

Sam is right. Sam is totally right. Fresh corpse. Needs checking out. That doesn't mean he wants to go to the hospital. The blood was nothing, absolutely nothing. He had a minor _tiny_ little freak out, now he's fine. Yeah, maybe he feels like shit. It's been a long fucking day. But it's not hospital bad, nowhere near hospital bad, and the thought of getting trapped in the hole when he's not even sick--

If Sam were alone he'd probably be standing over a bubbling cauldron and rubbing his palms together and laughing maniacally about his sneaky and obnoxious and goddamn it _clever_ way to kill two birds with one stone.

Goddamn it.

***

Jess hates hospitals, mostly because they bring out her insatiable nosiness-- she can't resist staring at bleeding wounds, watching people vomit, trying to figure out what's wrong with people who don't look very sick. And in the few instances she's visited a family member in an actual ward, she's had absolutely no choice but to peek into the rooms of total strangers and feel all haunted by the cold aura of illness and real-or-imagined impending death.

Basically she hates hospitals because they remind her what a _terrible _person she is. So she tends to keep her eyes to the floor, her arms around herself, rubbing the pricklies away.

Sam and Dean, on the other hand, walk into the hospital like they're walking into the neighborhood Target . All Dean has to say is "cystic fibrosis" and "lung bleed" and they encase him in a curtained glass box in the ER to wait for a more permanent room. Now he's in bed, IV'd and gowned up, wearing oxygen, and there's nothing to do but wait.

Dean's flipping channels too fast to see what's on the television, hitting the remote's buttons much harder than necessary and the sound's not even on. She and Sam are sitting near his bed, Sam holding a very out-dated newspaper in one hand, his other arm hooked around her middle. She wishes she could say the absent way he's petting the small of her back is comforting, but it isn't. Not at all. In fact it's making her kind of nervous.

"Listen to this, Dean," he says, studying a small article in the metro section. "Two weeks ago someone choked to death in the bathroom of In-and-Out Burger in Redding."

"That's fucking fascinating," Dean says to the remote as he whacks it against his palm, "Goddamn it what the hell good is a fucking TV you can't hear it?"

"They said the guy aspirated on a cheeseburger, but they didn't find anything in his stomach but Dr. Pepper."

Mid-whack, Dean's face goes suspiciously blank. "You're kidding me."

"Nope."

"That's. Weird." Dean seems to think on it a moment, then goes back to beating the crap out of the remote control. "Sam seriously. What in the fuck?"

"Give it here." Sam reaches for it and Dean jerks it away. "Look at the buttons, Dean. Anything say 'mute?'"

"No. Nothing says fucking 'mute.'"

"The red one. Try the red one."

"What fucking red one?"

"Dude. _That_ one."

"What one?"

"The RED ONE, Dean. There."

"It's orange."

"It's red."

"It's orange."

"It's reddish-orange," Jess interrupts, pushing Sam over a little so she can crane her neck to look at the remote. "Anyway, CL means 'CALL.' Push the purple one with the picture of a speaker on it. That one."

Dean pushes it and the remote explodes with the tinny sounds of preacher howling mid-sermon at some mega church.

"Don't know why they put a speaker in a fucking remote control fucking anyway," Dean grumbles. He pushes the red-orange button. The sound of the TV crackles out, replaced by a man's voice.

"What can I do for you?"

"If you're going to leave me sitting here all freakin' night," Dean tells the voice, "I'd appreciate... well I want-- just. Christ." With a little growl he lets go of the button and falls back against the bed, turns the TV volume back on, flips through the channels again, sits back up again, coughs, spits, repeats.

"Dean," Sam says in the stern-but-soothing voice he reserves especially for his brother, "Do you need something to help you relax?"

"What, you haven't roofied me yet today?"

Sam shrugs, plants his face back in newspaper. Nobody talks for a good fifteen minutes. Dean coughs almost continually, spitting up cloudy guck streaked with brownish-red (Jess _really_ tries not to look, really), sending it flying into one of those kidney-shaped puke bowl things resting on his knees.

Jess has to admit, she's impressed by his aim. And she's gotten used to the sound of him gagging but _god, _it sounds so painful. The television is far too loud and Sam is far far away in some kind of In-and-Out Burger death Lala Land and it's actually starting to sound relaxing, the idea of being alone in the apartment with nothing but endless replays of the image of frothy vomit spilling from Brand's mouth as he struggles for air and dies.

During one of Dean's quiet periods, Sam leans over and looks in the basin. "At least it's brownish. That's a good sign."

Dean either doesn't hear or pretends not to. He settles back against the pillows. "This is impossible, Sam."

"It's not impossible."

"Don't get all Little Orphan Annie on me."

"I'm not... Dean. Relax. This is going to be fine, okay? It's all figured out."

"Sam if you don't stop talking to me like... _think _about this. If he's here at all they could take him away any time. And there's no way we're going to figure this thing out if they keep me here for two fucking weeks."

Sam crushes the newspaper in both fists and tosses it aside. "Not now, okay? Not now."

Jess bites her lip to keep from asking what they're talking about. Sam's eyes dart nervously to her. He goes to the door of Dean's cubicle and holds it open, gesturing for her to join him in the hallway. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

They walk down the hallway a little, out of Dean's earshot. Not that Sam needs to talk. Everything he wants to say is right there on his face, clear as day: _Dean's stressed and he doesn't need the extra stress of you being here. _

And she's pretty sure he can read her response: _That's a little melodramatic, don't you think? He was well enough to drive himself here and fight with you the whole way, wasn't he? _

_He's just putting up a front. But that doesn't matter, this is all an excuse to mask the _real _reason I don't want you here, because you thought I was brave and sensitive when really I'm a selfish self-pitying neurotic--_

Okay enough.

"How about I go and bring back some dinner?" She says.

Sam smiles. "Great idea."

***

"Christ, I thought you were never gonna get rid of her," Dean says, pulling himself up from the bed. "So did you find out? Is the guy dead or not?"

Sam shrugs. "Probably. If he's not in the morgue, I'll find out where he is."

"This is an awesome plan, Sammy. Totally awesome. We have twenty minutes till your girlfriend comes back. _Maybe._ Let's go sifting through toe tags, why don't we."

"Dude," Sam says, averting his eyes as his brother steps into a pair of sweats, "She's _scared_. What the hell else was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, stayed home with her maybe? We coulda just as easily busted our way in here in the middle of the night as janitors. Or interns. Or doctors. Or hell, fake patients."

Sam rubs two fingers in a circle around his temple. His head is beginning to hurt. "This is Stanford Medical, Dean. I'm a _student_ on this campus."

"Right."

"We had to come here anyway, you coughed up at least a cup of blood, so why not--"

"--I get it, Sam. I know. Fine. I'm here, okay? So shut up. Your girl'll be back any time. Chop-chop."

"Put on the mask."

Sam expects a fight about the mask, too--they're just going to get caught and scolded if someone sees him wandering around without one-- but he's pleasantly surprised when his brother ties one to his face without protest.

They step into the bright hallway and head the opposite direction of the nurse's hub, circling half the building to get to the nearest elevator. They go down one floor and a young dark-haired woman gets in with them. Dean manages to give her a million dollar smile, even with his face and nose covered, and Sam can't help but crack a smile at the absurdity of the situation, Dean in a gown, sweatpants and mask, dragging his IV pole alongside him, hunting.

"There's something I haven't seen in a while," Dean says, "What the hell are you smiling about?"

Sam just shakes his head.

It's only by some miracle that they make it down to the morgue without getting caught. Dean's a walking noisemaker with his coughing, the IV pole rolling, even the rustle of his gown seems unnaturally loud. The place is dim but not completely dark, the lock is a joke, and the only body they're storing tonight belongs to one Brand Weaver, aka The Warden. The process is so painless that when Sam pulls out the drawer, he half expects the corpse to jump out and attack them.

They find rubber gloves, and Dean paws around in the filing cabinets while Sam unzips the body bag.

He's seen a lot of corpses in his life. But never anything like this. The body's encased in an almost crystallized shell, yellow, white and gray. It looks more like a mountain of filthy snow than a human being.

With a gloved hand he fingers Brand's cheek; the substances falls away like dust. Or sand. Or--

"Dude he's covered in salt," Sam spins toward his brother. "What's it say for cause of death?"

Dean closes the folder in his hands. He looks almost green. "Catastrophic respiratory failure caused by acute idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis."

Sam can see the wheels spinning in his brother's head but can't quite tell what he's thinking. So he takes a guess. "Dean. It's got nothing to do with... fibrosis means 'scarring' or something. All it means is that his lungs failed really fast and they don't know why."

Dean steps up to the corpse, starts brushing all the crystallized salt off his face. It won't all come off, some of it is implanted deep in Brand's pores, but enough of it falls away for them to make out his features. He doesn't look all that familiar to Sam, at least not any more familiar than any other of Nate's dumbshit friends. He has a vague memory of the guy wearing one of those paper Burger King crowns to a Halloween party once, and maybe it was him that puked off the balcony at Amy's place that one--

"Holy shit, Sam. Holy shit."

Dean's gone as white as the dead guy. He's gripping his IV pole like he's about to fall over.

"What?"

"This guy-- before you found me sitting on the sidewalk earlier... he rode by me on a bicycle." Dean presses a hand into his forehead. "Stopped and talked to me."

"So?" Dean looks like he's about to keel over, so Sam drags him away from the body and pushes him into a chair. "So what?"

"Fuck. Sam. This is all my fault."

"How?"

"I have no idea. But I had contact with both of these guys and now they're dead."

"Coincidence, Dean. It's just a coincidence. It's a small world."

"What kind of ghost makes people salty, Sam? That's not even possible. It's not fucking _possible._"

Sam kneels down in front of him. "Dean. Listen to yourself. How the fuck would _you _be making people salty?"

Dean treats his brother to a hearty scowl. "This is not me losing my mind, Sam. Listen to what I'm saying."

"I'm listening."

"Before you were born? When they couldn't figure out what the hell was wrong with me?"

"Yeah?"

"They tested my sweat. CFers have really salty sweat. Salty skin."

"What's your point, Dean? I still don't see--"

"--my point is fuck the idiopathic whatever-the-hell, Sam. Look at this guy. Remember all the salt we found where King died? I had contact with both of them and on my way here I ate at the In-and-Out Burger where that other guy choked-- I was in Redding almost a week, Sam, after I got out of the hospital. And all three died of respiratory failure and this one's in a fucking _salt cocoon_. Like they all died of some kind of supercharged, supernatural cystic fibrosis."

"No way, Dean." Sam stands, goes to the body, and flakes off a little of the salty crust for himself. He rolls it between his fingers, smells it.

"No way," he repeats. Because it couldn't be. Could it? "No. That's ridiculous. It's something else."

Dean swallows. "Sam. Am I dead?"

"What?"

"Did I die in that hospital in Boise? Am I a spirit? Tell me the truth."

Sam laughs, borderline hysterically. "Dean. _No. _Trust me, you are very, very not dead."

***

Dean nods but isn't at all convinced.

Sure, he can feel his physical body, his shitty, aching lungs. The faint pinch of the IV. But spirits feel whatever they're used to, don't they? Whatever they can't let go? Physical sensation, emotion, whatever you think is your conscious awareness-- it all means absolutely fucking nothing.

"_Dean,_" Sam persists. "You are not dead. Listen to me. You've barely slept. It's been a long day. I'll take Jessica home and do some research. You get some rest. We'll figure this out in the morning."

_Don't you fucking leave me here, _Dean almost says. His mouth gets as far as forming the first sound before he starts to cough instead. It's thick and it gets stuck and Sam has to get behind him and clap him on the back before he can force it out. He doesn't have anything to spit in so he swallows it, a warm blob that doesn't go all the way back down.

Normally it wouldn't be a big deal. He's spent a lot of time in the hospital by himself. This time is no different.

Except it is, because God know if he's even... what if Sam is delusional, too? What if this is all some kind of huge--

Sam smacks him upside the head.

"OW!"

"There," Sam says, "Could I do that to a ghost? Could I give a ghost PT three times a day? Stop it, Dean."

Dean rewards his brother with a hard pop to the shoulder. Sam falls back and pouts and rubs the sore spot and okay, Dean believes it. He's still alive.

But then there's the other possibility.

"What if Dad has something to do with this?"

"To do with what?"

"What if he did something, to stop me from dying in Boise? And now it's making me... kill people."

"Dad didn't try to stop you from dying in Boise."

"How do you know?"

"Because that's not where his priorities are right now."

Dean knows exactly where this conversation's going to go, what Sam's going to say if they keep at it: Oh, Dad cares more about the hunt than his own family. Blah blah blah, Dad is so selfish. Dad doesn't care about anything but revenge, blah blah blah. So Dean keeps his mouth shut.

Plus Sam is probably right, at least about the no-miracle part. Before he was released from the hospital, Dean had spent almost another two weeks recovering. His PFTs dipped and peaked, he whipped in and out of fever, his spinal cord had caught fire and his stomach, christ. He can barely think about it. Point was, it sure didn't feel like any kind of fucking miracle, not even one with a deadly price.

But. You know. It would have been nice. To know that Dad had tried to do something. Even if Dean hadn't wanted him to.

OOOO

Minutes after they return to the room Jess comes back with overstuffed bags of food—descent sit-down food, not drive thru food and god bless her, she even brought some for him. Dean's stomach is all clenched up but he nibbles on his cheeseburger for show.

When Sam and Jess are finished eating, Sam takes his time picking up the garbage, closing all the containers and stacking them neatly back in the bags. Then he clears his throat.

"Alright, dude," he says.

"Okay."

"Get some rest?"

"Yeah."

Dean looks at Jess, who looks back at him like she wants to say "get well soon" or something but doesn't know if it's appropriate.

"See you tomorrow, Jessica," he says.

"Goodnight, Dean." She comes forward, leans down and pulls him into a gentle hug.

Sam is right behind her. He pulls Dean against him and whispers in his ear, "don't beat yourself up all night, okay? Get some rest. There's a perfectly good explanation for this."

Dean can't bring himself to return the goodbye. All he wants now is oxygen and sleep and to be alone, just he and the TV and the nurse's aides, no mystery, no hunt, no pressure, no being responsible for killing people, for making his brother miserable, for slowly destroying his brother's relationship, none of that.

He notices Sam is standing there all big-eyed, clearly having second thoughts about leaving, so he relaxes back into the bed and tries to look tranquil and gives them both a brave little smile.

Of course that bravely dying shit doesn't work on Sam anymore.

"Dean," he says.

"Sam just _go._" It comes out a little whinier than he intended. In fact a lot whinier because it was whiny at all. He tries again. "Get the fuck out of here. See you in the morning."

OOOO

It's just barely morning when he wakes up, the sky out the window is that milky color between light and dark. The hospital room is _freezing. _There's a male nurse standing at the foot of his bed, smiling annoyingly, even through his mask. He's a big guy, broad shoulders and blond hair, wearing rubber gloves, which he's holding away from his body at a weird angle like he's just scrubbed up for surgery or something.

"Here to do your CPT," he says.

Dean attempts a deep breath. The first one of the morning is always a bitch. His lungs are like heavy liquid lead. "My brother'll do it. Should be here soon."

"Sorry. Doctor's orders," the nurse chirps. He comes closer, snatches up the remote and starts flattening the bed.

Goddamn it. If there's one thing Dean can't stand, it's a clueless nurse. He repeats himself for the guy, nice and slow: "My brother will do it when he gets here. I haven't even had a neb yet."

But the nurse is already behind him, his stiff, cold hands pounding an unfamiliar rhythm on his bare back. "There. This isn't so bad, is it? Course, the vest would be better but you're an old fashioned kind guy, huh?"

Dean thinks about breaking the guy's arm, just for a split second, but you know what? Whatever. Who knows what time Sammy will decide to show up again anyway.

"No so hard," he says in lieu of an argument. "Back's been a little sore."

"You fucking glass-half-empty CFers," is the nurse's answer.

At first Dean's not sure he heard right. The nurse keeps pounding like he didn't say anything. He even starts to hum a little.

"Come again?" Dean ventures.

"Couldn't ever just follow the rules, could you? Always had to try to be like your healthy brother."

"What the fuck?" Dean tries to squirm away, off the bed, but the nurse grips him tight in one arm, his other arm still beating Dean hard just below the shoulder blades.

"Where you going, Dean? You gotta get that shit up and out," the nurse says. Instead of using a cupped hand he flattens his palm so he's just smacking Dean over and over, harder and harder. "What did I always fucking tell you? You have CF, Dean. It doesn't have you. Does it, Dean? Tell me. Does it have you?"

With his free arm Dean swings around and hooks his fingers hard into the nurse's neck. But the nurse is unnaturally strong, he clutches Dean by both his wrists, picks him up like he doesn't weigh anything at all. Next thing Dean knows, his back is slamming against the wall, all the air leaving his body in a long, howling wheeze.

"Listen to me, Dean," the nurse says, baring his little white teeth. "I don't wanna hurt you, okay? I just want you to listen. I just want to _talk._ I've been trying to talk to you all this time and you just-- you won't listen to me, Dean. You just _won't_ _hear me. _Now-- now-- now-- will you listen?"

Dean tries to draw in a breath but he can barely make a sound. Nothing will come in or go out. He's fucked. So very very fucked. _Who, _he tries to say, his lips forming twitching little Os like some kind of retarded goldfish-slash-owl. _Who? Who? _

"What?" The nurse says. "You don't recognize me? We were best friends, dude. Till you left. It's me, Dean. It's me. Derek."

Dean gulps a little bit of air. A little bit more comes out. He can do this. He can start breathing again. He sucks in a little more air. Then pushes it out again. Then in. Then out.

"Dead," he manages to squeak.

"Oh no. No no no no no." The nurse bows his head, coughs a couple of times and it's a CF cough, there's no mistaking it. "It wasn't my time to die! I'm not-- death is an ugly word, Dean. And you and I are gonna have a talk. Just breathe for me, okay? Breathe for me and we'll talk."

_Not for you, you crazy fuck,_ Dean thinks. But he breathes, little sips in and out until he's choking on his own rumbling, breathy coughs.

"That's it, Dean. That's it. That's good. I used to tell you, didn't I? Exercise. Keeps the lungs healthy. You should be in a hospital. You should take care of yourself. You should--"

Derek's eyes go wide and lifeless. He gasps, once, twice, like he's doing a bad impression of Dean just moments ago. He chokes and turns red like someone has him around the neck.

Then the body falls to the ground, dead.

:::

To be continued.

Just in case some of you are going "who the hell is Derek???": Well, he first appeared waaaaay back in chapter 2, and was mentioned periodically after that, and there are some little sections throughout the fic that are (very ambiguously) written from his point of view. I didn't expect so much time to go by between updates, but hopefully most of you remembered him anyway. :/

Annnnnddd this isn't totally for sure, but I estimate it will take about two and a half more chapters to draw this fic to a close. There is an end in sight!


	11. Chapter 11

**To my wonderful and gracious readers: **I am sorry I suck so bad at answering reviews :( I adore each and every one of them, I really do, it's just that the ff system makes it hard for me to keep track of who I've answered and who I haven't-- I'm pretty sure some of you have gotten multiple replies to the same review while some have gotten nothing at all. I know hundreds of people manage to successfully use the system every day, but what can I say? I'm dense. *shrug*

But yes, trying to improve... please forgive me.

**PART ELEVEN **

Sam dreams he's clinging to a buoy in the middle of the ocean and Dean is somehow beating him on the chest with cupped hands, over and over but he's still gasping gasping gasping until his head sinks beneath the water and it's all so ham-fistedly symbolic that even in his sleep he wants to scold his brain for conceiving it.

He gasps awake to Jess shaking him, her nails half digging into his biceps. For a moment he's too startled and pleased by her near-nakedness to concentrate on the frantic words her mouth is forming, but soon enough it pierces his grog.

"Sam, wake the fuck up. Look at this, look!" She runs out of the bedroom, poking her head back in moments later. "Hurry up! It's Dean. They're talking about Dean."

Speaking of Dean, he should call his brother. He looks at the clock on the nightstand. It's almost nine. Dean probably refused to have his PT from anyone else this morning, he's probably--

"SAM goddamn it, get up."

Groaning in the affirmative he gathers himself up, bringing along a sheet to clutch around his waist.

Jess is perched on the edge of the sofa, pulling one of his shirts over her head. "My god, Sam. Jesus," she says, stabbing a finger at the TV.

She's got the news on. There's a reporter standing in front of the hospital.

"...a hospital source says the assailant went missing from his room around six this morning. Dean Winchester, twenty-six years old, suffers from cystic fibrosis, a progressive and fatal illness of the lungs and pancreas--"

Oh, God.

"What the hell happened?" Sam says, plopping down on the coffee table so his face is just inches from the screen.

"They found someone dead in his room," Jess says. Her eyes are wild, her hair poofing in statically curling waves around her shoulders. "They found some male nurse _dead_ in his room and Dean's missing."

Sam stares at the blurred shapes on the television. His whole body pounds with adrenaline as he tries to arrange the pieces. Dean gone. Some guy dead.

"They think Dean killed him," Jess says, "They think Dean strangled him."

"Shit," Sam says. "_Shit_."

He stumbles back into the bedroom, fumbling in a pile of dirty jeans until he finds his phone. Ten missed calls from Dean.

Thank god.

He dials back, counting the seconds, counting the rings until Dean finally answers.

"Sam," he says. "Fuck, Sammy."

"Where are you?"

"You remember Derek Castle, from that town in central Washington? He had CF?"

Of course Sam remembers. The party. Dean in the bath tub. Spending all night cleaning up Dean's mess. Flunking a test. "What about him?"

"He's latched onto me, somehow. I think might be ghost possession."

"Dean you're all over the fucking news. They think you killed someone."

"I had to leave, Sammy. I _am_ killing people."

"No. This-- where are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Dean."

"He roughed me up a little but I'm fine. Don't worry. I'll take care of this myself. I already came and got my car, so you just... don't worry about me. I'll call you in a coupla months, okay?"

"Dean. No. Tell me where you are."

"This is my shit. This is my responsibility."

"Dean let me help."

"Later, Sammy."

"Dean goddamn it--"

The line goes dead. Sam tosses his phone on the bed and wrestles his legs into a pair of jeans, a shirt that still smells like hospital.

"Sam," Jess says behind him. "Did you talk to him? What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing." He turns his back to her. "Nothing."

"Sam. If he hurt somebody, if he needs help, you're not the one to--"

"--he didn't hurt anybody. He would _never_ hurt anybody."

Sam closes his eyes and takes a long breath. This is the moment he's been dreading. He turns, watches her studying him, sees her face change as she reads his expression.

"You're leaving me," she says.

"I'm sorry."

Sam buttons and zips his fly. He looks around and tries to think about what he needs to pack, besides some of Dean's treatment stuff. But there's really only one thing he's going to need. He dives into the closet, flinging boxes of winter clothes and Christmas ornaments until he finds his mini-safe.

"Why?" Jess says. "At least tell me why."

"Cops'll be here soon. Don't lie for me, don't try to protect me. Just tell them the truth and eventually they'll leave you alone."

"What? Sam what the hell are you...?"

"I was stupid to think I could have"--he gestures vaguely with a sweep of his arms-- "this. With you. I let this go on a lot longer than I should have. And I am sorry."

"Sam." She bends into the closet where he's fiddling with the combination to his safe. "Just tell me the truth."

"Jess, please. I gotta go, my brother's alone, he's barely got any medication, I--"

"He's not as helpless as you tell yourself he is," she says, her voice rising, "He can take care of himself. You... I don't understand what's wrong with you. Ever since he got here, you haven't been to class, you haven't gone to work, it's just him him him all fucking day and I don't..." She tosses her hands up. "I don't understand. Help me understand and I'll understand, Sam. Please."

Sam's fingers slip, losing the combination. Jess's nails dig into his shoulder. "Sam, please."

He turns to her, and reaches for her hands, just for a moment before he thinks better of it.

"Ghosts are real," he says. "Dean and I are hunting one. That's what we do. What our dad raised us to do."

Her eyebrows raise, her forehead wrinkles."Like Ghosthunters?"

"No. Like hunting _real _ghosts. Real demons. Real monsters. Things that want us dead. Dangerous, horrible things."

There, he's said it, and now it's over. The last year and a half of his life.

Jess's face is like stone. She keeps her voice low and calm. "Sam. Why are you doing this? Why are you saying this shit to me?"

Sam had expected tears. Lots of them. From them both. But he feels just as numb as she looks.

"I'm telling you the truth," he says, "For once, I'm telling you the truth. You don't have to believe me. In fact I'd rather you didn't."

He turns back to the safe. He enters the combination in three quick turns. He moves the stack of porn mags he put there just in case she ever got nosy. There's a shoebox underneath. Inside the shoe box is his gun, the only one he kept, one that used to belong to Dean. He knows it's already loaded but he checks anyway, pulling it from the box.

Jess sees it and falls away from him with gasp. He stands upright and stuffs it into the back of his pants. He takes a couple of steps toward her, his hands in the air as if surrendering.

"Who are you?" She says. She keeps stepping back. She trips over the post of the bed and nearly falls. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm a hunter."

She sits down hard as if something pushed her. "Sam."

"I hope you _always_ think I'm a liar," he says, "I hope you don't everknow the truth. I love you. Believe that much, Jess. I love you so fucking much. But I can't run from my brother again. I can't run from this anymore. I can't do it."

He starts to reach out to her. She shrinks away.

He gathers all the clothes he can stuff in a duffle bag, whatever will fit with what's left of Dean's medications, and he doesn't look back.

***

A lot of people have never heard of cystic fibrosis. When Dean tells them they stare blankly and say "oh," then go home and google it and freak out when the internet tells them he's dying.

So Dean has his favorite stories. Severe asthma if he likes a girl and wants to stay with her again somewhere down the road, because it isn't a lie, he's just omitting the CF part.

Sometimes he says he's a retired firefighter and that his lungs were damaged in a four-alarmer. Sometimes he just makes up a story on the fly-- one time he actually convinced a chick that he'd damaged his lungs saving a disabled kid from drowning (that wasn't an all-the-way lie, either-- he'd saved plenty of kids. Just not disabled drowning ones).

His favorite story is that he has a nasty chest cold, because it's not romantically sad or heroic. Nobody gives a crap about a chest cold. People's eyes glaze over. They get bored. They change the subject.

That's what he tells the woman who runs the motel. He stops in the doorway and stands there coughing until he almost blacks out, clinging to the doorknob because his back is about to break right fucking in two-- wouldn't that be the epitome of comedy, an asthmatic ghost-hunting paraplegic with CF.

He's got a tee-shirt in one hand to catch all the lung guck because the blood's begun to flow again, not too awful, but because fate's always knocking his ass around, he's pretty sure he's on the verge of a massive bleed.

When he's finally able to look up at the motel clerk, her face is frozen in cartoonish shock, she's still got a cup of coffee tipped halfway to her mouth.

"Rooms," he gasps, "I need rooms."

He throws down the last of his cash for three rooms-- one on the end and the two next to it, to make sure he keeps a good distance from anyone else-- and snatches the keys from her hand.

By the time he opens the motel door he's pretty sure his chest is caving in, maybe his ribs have magically transformed into a big squeezing fist. He falls on the bed, fumbles with the concentrator which is dead, of course, which means wrestling with the cord and finding an outlet and by the time that's all over he's pretty sure this is the end of Dean Winchester.

"Is this what you want, you bastard?" He calls out to his empty motel room, because he's pretty sure Derek's around somewhere, listening. And he swears that his lungs open up, just a little.

Then he spits blood all over the nightstand.

***

It's like the night Dean ran off after their fight. Sam knows almost instinctively where Dean will go. Back towards central Washington, in case he needs to dig up Derek's body. Factoring in that he's hurt in some way, Sam knows exactly where Dean would have gotten too tired to keep driving. He knows which motel Dean would pick-- something off the freeway so that his car couldn't be spotted. Somewhere cheap but not too cheap-- nothing crawling with anything potentially deadly to CF lungs.

Sam spots the Impala in a dark corner of the parking lot of a motel called Sleep 4 Cheap. He drives a couple of miles beyond it to ditch the stolen car. Then he walks and walks, and the longer he walks the more pissed off he gets.

Dean trying to do this by himself. Running off. Leaving he and Jess to deal with the cops. While injured and probably still coughing blood, Sam knows he is. His brother's constant fucking suicide missions.

By the time he reaches the door of Dean's motel he has to stop himself from just kicking it in. Instead he punches the air, walks away from the door a second, comes back and knocks.

"It's your brother," he calls before Dean can freak out.

"Come in," Dean calls from inside.

Dean's shirtless and lying on his side on the single queen bed. Wearing oxygen, dragging gooey breaths in and out. He's got a bloody tee-shirt in one hand. The other is clicking away at his laptop.

"What did he do to you?" Sam says without fanfare, walking around the bed to inspect his brother's wounds. His back is blackened with handprints, edged with green and purple. Sam gently fingers the bruises, snapping his hand back when Dean hisses in pain.

"Jesus, Dean. You should be in a hospital."

"Not happening. Not until this bastard is dead." He takes a breath. "Thought I told you not to follow me."

"Well I followed you. What have you found out?"

"What did you tell Jess?"

Sam barely contains a flinch. "Doesn't matter. How are we killing Derek?"

Dean can't really look him in the eye, he can't twist around enough, but he gets as close as he can. "I read Derek's obituary years ago. It says that he died at home with his family from 'complications of CF.' But that's bullshit. I found the police report. He was accepted to Stanford. He was driving himself down here, summer after he graduated. Decided to take the scenic route. Stopped on the side of the road, walked into the brush to take a piss. Died of massive hemoptysis."

With a grimace Dean lifts the laptop over his shoulder for Sam to take. Sam scans the screen.

"Lung bleed," Sam says.

Dean nods. "Before the cell phone age. No one around to call for help. He bled out."

"Fuck."

Sam can't stop the mental image; Dean in Derek's place, clinging to the door of the Impala, vomiting blood until there's nothing left. Fainting, dying, lying there rotting for a week. It prickles the hair on the back of his neck.

"He was cremated, of course," Dean continues. "Not that it matters. He decomposed in the woods for over a week before someone came to tow the car and found the body. We'd have to start a goddamn forest fire to get all of him."

Dean sits up, pinching the skin between his eyes. He coughs, hard and wet. Spits more bloody mucus into the shirt. Sam scoots closer. "Easy, bro," he mutters.

"Think it's Derek," Dean wheezes, "think he's making me sick."

"Christ, Dean. We gotta do something."

"I think I figured out the pattern." Dean arranges himself stiffly on the bed, moving his limbs, twisting, leaning backward and forward, but he can't seem to find a position that doesn't hurt, or compromise his breathing, or both.

"Here," Sam says, shoving the two bed pillows into Dean's lap. "Lean forward and hug them like we're doing PT."

The pillows are a little flat and don't quite give Dean the support he needs, but he's at least slightly more comfortable, can breathe a little easier.

"There's two connections between all the victims," he continues. "King was an ex-football player and well-known on campus because of the coke dealing. Brand Weaver was crazy about cycling, but also a king of the local karaoke circuit. I couldn't find out much about the guy at In and Out Burger except that he was big on eating competitions and crazy about snowboarding."

"I don't see much of a connection here, Dean."

"They were all athletic. They were all big fish in small ponds. Derek's picking people who remind him of himself. People he might have wanted to be."

"What about you? Why not possess you?"

Dean shrugs. "Doesn't want me. I'm a Sick Person. Derek... Derek didn't think of himself that way. Didn't have to."

There's something off about the statement, some kind of bitter, passive-aggressive subtext. But they don't have time for that right now, so Sam ignores it. "You think you picked him up somewhere on your way down here, and he was able to latch on just because you were familiar?"

"I guess. Either way I'm just his own personal rickshaw driver. He's riding me around looking for a new body."

Dean swallows hard and closes his eyes. He goes white as a sheet, looks almost close to fainting. "Damn it," he says under his breath, removing the cannula as calm as can be. "I'm gonna puke."

"Bathroom or ice bucket?"

"Bathroom."

Sam hauls his brother to his feet and helps him stumble to the two or three feet to the tiny bathroom. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, twiddling his thumbs for lack of anything better to do with his hands. Dean heaves, nothing much but blood and bile. His ribs look almost like they're writhing beneath his blackened skin.

Maybe it's not the time or place, but the baffling unfairness of it all washes over Sam anyway. It's just such senseless, cruel bullshit. All of it. By the time Dean is done getting sick, Sam's hands are cramped from how hard he's gripping the edge of the tub.

Breathless, Dean just kind of twists and falls forward, his forehead coming to rest on Sam's kneecap. His hand closes hard around Sam's ankle.

"_Fuck," _he says as part of a long, indulged groan. "We gotta kill this fuck, Sam. Like yesterday."

Sam drops a hand in Dean's sweaty hair, pretending to brush it out of his face so that he can check for fever. He's clammy, almost cool to the touch. Sam doesn't know whether to be relieved or scared shitless.

He forces himself to focus. "So he wants a new body? That's it?"

"No. He said he wanted to talk. Like maybe he's something he wants to tell me. But none of the host bodies can handle the CF. He keeps killing them before he can say what he wants to say."

Sam rakes his hand through his hair, thinking. "I have an idea. But you can't get pissed."

"Right."

"I mean it, Dean. This could work."

"What?"

He swallows down the ache in his chest. "I was gonna ask Jess to marry me."

Dean raises his head, a big goofy smile on his face made eerie by the blood clinging to his lips and between his teeth. "That's awesome, Sammy, but a little off topic."

"Before I did, I got tested. To see if I carry the gene."

"What gene?"

"The CF gene."

Dean's face falls. "And?"

"And I'm a carrier."

There's no missing his brother's flinch. He scoots away, against the bathroom wall, careful not to let anything touch his back. "Sam... that doesn't mean anything."

"Means our kids could have CF."

"It takes two parents with the mutated gene to make a CF kid."

"So. She could be a carrier."

"That's unlikely."

"Maybe not. Mom and Dad managed to find each other, didn't they?"

"That's stupid, Sam. You shouldn't let that keep you from getting married."

"Doesn't matter. Not worth the risk. That's not my point, anyway. My point is, maybe I could handle Derek because I have the mutated gene. Maybe I could be his host."

"Fuck no."

"Dean. If you find out what he wants, maybe he'll be able to move on. Maybe you can convince him to move on."

"No." Dean gets shakily to his feet, "That's a stupid fucking idea."

"You got any other ideas? You said it yourself-- we'll never find the spot he died and even if we could, we'll never be able to burn all the remains. It's been years. By now he's in the flowers and in the soil and in the fucking tree bark."

"No."

"He's stayed in each body longer. Maybe he's learning how to possess without killing."

Dean leaves the bathroom and Sam follows, close on his heels. He helps his brother lower himself down on the bed and arranges the cannula back around his face without a word.

"Absolutely fucking not," Dean says. "He can possess me and you can talk to him."

"Goddamn it, Dean. I'm healthy. If I offer myself he'll take me. You already he said he doesn't _want _you."

"Then we'll make him want me."

Anger flares up so fast in Sam's chest that it almost feels alive, something that might jump right out of him and smack the shit out of his stupid brother. "Look at you. You're fucking spewing blood. Think about this, Dean. Maybe he's not making you sick. Maybe he's just killing you more slowly because your body already knows the disease. The gene is in my body, too, Dean. I can do this. You're already weak. You could die."

"Which one do you want, Sam?" Dean pulls himself up sitting so that he's facing Sam on the bed.

Sam shakes his head. "What?"

"Which one do you want?" Dean repeats. "Tell me. You want me alive or dead? I want you to make up your fucking mind. Decide, right now. Cause you can't have both."

Sam swallows. Goddamn it, not this. Not right now. "What in the hell are you--"

"You know the easiest way for this to go down. I try to figure out a way to get rid of Derek by myself, and if I don't succeed, I die. Then his spirit's got nothing to attach to and it's released. And then you go on with your life."

_I just gave up everything for you,_ Sam wants to scream. _Everything. _

"I don't want you to die," he says. "Of course I don't want you to die."

"You were pretty goddamned comfortable with the idea a week ago."

"I was just a kid, Dean. I made a mistake."

"So now what? This is how you're gonna make yourself feel better? Offer your body up to some obnoxious ghost?"

"That's not what this--"

"Yes it is. It is, Sam. This really has nothing to do with me. You wanna be to able to tell yourself 'oh well, I did everything could.' This is about _you _making sure _you_ don't have to live with some kind of guilt after I'm dead. Well I don't need a nurse, Sam. I don't need your help and I sure as hell don't need you around twenty-four hours a goddamn day reminding me I have one foot in the grave."

It's not as if Sam didn't know that something like this was coming. But he's rendered speechless for a moment anyway, frozen beneath the weight of his brother's glare. His mouth opens in preparation to do what he always does-- we don't have time for this. Later, Dean. Later. We've got other things to worry about.

But truth is, one or both of them will probably be dead by morning.

"Maybe you don't need my help," Sam says. "Maybe you're right, maybe I'm overbearing and paranoid and I worry too much and treat you like you're made of glass and I hover and I don't want you to do shit that puts your life at risk."

"Well praise the lord," Dean says, looking unduly pleased with himself. "Finally, he sees."

"Maybe you don't need it. But you want it. You want me to take care of you."

Dean scoffs, rolls his eyes viciously toward the ceiling. "You're fucking delusional."

"Am I? Then why did you come to Stanford, Dean? To check on me? Really? And if my help got so goddamn annoying then why didn't you just leave in the middle of the night? Why'd you announce your departure like a goddamn cruise ship?"

"Doesn't matter. You woulda come after me either way."

"Why make a big show of kicking my ass and drugging me? Why'd you decide to hustle less than 50 feet from my doorstep with one of my girlfriend's best friends, huh? Why not just take off?"

Dean tries to get off the bed; Sam grips him hard him by the elbow, ignoring his pained wince.

"You just woulda come after me, " Dean says, "You know you woulda found me."

"And that's exactly what you wanted."

Dean makes another attempt at escape. Sam takes his other elbow and he can't help but shake him a little.

"I want you to answer me honestly. Answer yourself honestly. When I fell asleep before I could do your PT, did you go out to the car and get your vest to do it yourself? Have you ever done anything but bitch when I'm doing your treatments? When have you _ever _really tried to help yourself when I'm around? When in your entire goddamn life?"

"Fuck you." Dean shakes himself free and gets up from the bed, knocking the cannula free of his face. He stops just short of the door, lowers his face into his hand. "That's not... you don't want me to live, Sam. You just want to make sure I still have a pulse. There's a fucking difference."

"Living doesn't mean going down in some bullshit blaze of glory with dad. Revenge isn't going to make your life feel more meaningful. It's not."

"Then what is, huh? Tell me."

Sam shakes his head, shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe not being so goddamned selfish."

Dean's eyes grow two sizes. "_Selfish?_"

"Yeah. Selfish. Always trying to die heroically so you can feel like you're worth something. What about the people in your life who need you?"

Dean smiles a miserable smile. "When have you ever needed me for anything?"

"You're my big brother," Sam says simply.

Dean lowers his gaze to the floor, his bloody tee shirt still balled in his fist. His eyes go glassy and Sam fears he's just shutting down again, like he always does. Like they always do.

Then he looks up at Sam and licks his lips. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Sam's not entirely sure what Dean is agreeing to. "So you're gonna let me do this?"

Dean shakes his head. "Fuck no. Absolutely not."

"Think about what you're going to say to him, Dean. Quick."

"No. Sam... no."

Sam stands up, raises his face toward the ceiling and spreads his arms, totally aware of how crazed he looks and goddamned if he cares. "I'm right here for you, Derek."

"Sam shut up." Dean charges him, trying to pin his arms to his sides. "Don't."

"Come on," Sam calls again, batting Dean away. "You got something you wanna talk about? He's ready to talk. So come on. Take--"

Dean's hand closes around Sam's mouth. "Sam you shut the fuck --"

But it's too late. The last thing Sam feels is a rush of frozen air.

::::

To be continued.

*dodges flying rocks* I'm sorry about the cliffhanger. But the next and final chapter is half written, and I will try to get it out within a week, ok? Please don't kill me...


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Oops! I just posted the wrong document, so some of you got a free preview of the next chapter...**

**PART TWELVE**

All the heat melts from Sam's skin. He goes icy, the tension drains from his shoulders. He stops struggling. He grasps both of Dean's hands and twists so they're facing each other. The smile on his face isn't Sam's smile but Dean remembers it well: Derek's always-positive-always-hopeful-always-shit-eating grin.

"Get out of my brother," Dean growls. "Derek, get the fuck out of my brother. You're gonna kill him, do you understand that?"

"Have a seat, Dean," Derek says, easily shaking himself free of Dean's grip. Sam walks to the table by the window, his arm gesturing invitingly toward the chairs around it.

"I'm not sitting, Derek. Get the fuck out of my brother."

Derek rushes him like ghosts do, somehow even in Sam's body he's in one spot one second and the next they're standing nose-to-nose. "Sooner we talk, the sooner I vacate Sam. Sit down."

Derek bows his head and coughs and the sound that comes out of Sam's lungs-- like the mucus is boiling, like his whole respiratory system is liquefying.

Dean sits. Derek takes the other chair, leans back, crosses Sam's long legs, and folds his hands into his lap.

"So how're things, Dean?" He smiles expectantly, like he's conducting some sort of fucked up job interview.

"Derek," Dean says, leaning forward, "You're dead, okay? You had a bad lung bleed and you're dead now. It's time for you to move on."

"I know I'm dead," Derek says with a flippant shrug. "You think I don't know that? I still think that's a nasty way to put it, though. I mean, my spirit is alive, obviously. Right? Am I right?"

Dean's not sure, but it seems like Sam's lips are turning blue. "Yeah, Derek, You're right, okay? You're right. Now tell me what the hell you want."

He didn't think it was possible for Derek's smile to grow any wider but it does, it stretches across Sam's cheeks until it's damn near cutting his face in half.

"I want to sit here and kill your brother," he says, the words sliding through Sam's bared teeth. "I want to sit here and kill your brother while I watch you die, Dean. Nice and slow. Like what should have happened to you a long fucking time ago. What you think of that?"

Between the anger and the adrenaline Dean doesn't feel the cough coming, just all the sudden there it is, forcing its way out of his chest, and the blood comes before he can move his hand, it sprays into his palm and drips in hot wet trails down his arm.

"HA!" Derek laughs, clapping his hands together. "Looks like you're all ready. All primed."

"Why?" Dean chokes.

"Because no one wants you alive, Dean. You think Sammy wants you alive? I overheard that little convo you had." Derek makes quotey fingers in the air. "'Oh, I need my brother.' What a liar. Nobody needs you, Dean. And soon you're gonna be alone. You have any idea how lonely it is, being dead?"

It takes Dean a long moment to get his breath back, it's like his chest has slammed shut, like all the air around him has disappeared and there's nothing left to breathe. Like he's underwater.

Like he's drowning.

When he looks at Derek again he can barely focus his eyes, he wipes blindly at his mouth, still sputtering on blood--

And then it stops. His chest opens up again.

"Not yet, Dean," Derek says with a smirk. "No dying quite yet. I want to savor it. I have all the time in the world. "

"Just take me," Dean heaves. "I'll come with you. Let Sam go."

Derek rolls his eyes with a bemused little smile. "Now that would be pointless. I'm trying to add a little insult to injury here, Dean. I wanna stick in it and break it off."

"Why?" Dean demands again. He spits one last time and straightens himself, gulping air into his lungs. "Come on, Derek. You used to be a nice guy. Annoying as fuck, but nice. What happened?"

Derek-in-Sam's-body coughs again, longer this time. Until Sam's face turns red. He throws his head back over the chair, facing the ceiling. Dean watches Sam's chest heave.

"You still have a chance, Derek. To go somewhere better. This isn't it. But if you... there's still a chance."

Sam's chest is heaving, heaving heaving. He tilts his head forward so that he's looking at Dean again, Sam's nostrils flaring, his eyes slanted. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. There's nothing after this, Dean. There's just sitting in the woods in the fucking dark, don't know what's going on, don't know why no one can hear you screaming, don't know why you can't hear yourself screaming. Just dark. Until Deanie Weenie comes long. I could feel you Dean. I could smell you."

Derek suddenly propels himself forward, into the space between the two chairs, his hands locking around Dean's biceps.

"Don't you get it? I was everybody's personal Ryan White story. I was everyone's 'Hang in There' poster. Everybody's brave little fucking hero. Then you-- then you come into town. Skinny, sicker than shit, can't even get outta bed some days. Come to school all bruised and beat to shit. Bitch and complain about how you can't breathe, don't feel good. I couldn't ever do that, Dean. I had to be brave. They all wanted me to be brave."

Derek's breath is hot and sour in his face. White froth has gathered in the corners of Sam's mouth and Dean can hear a low, rattling wheeze sounding from deep within his brother's chest.

"You don't-- you don't have to be that anymore, Derek," Dean gasps. "You-- you can move on now."

"Move on," Derek scoffs. "Move on. Do you remember my vest, Dean? Tens of thousands of dollars. I used to brag about it. Do you remember?"

"How could I forget," Dean can't resist quipping. He tries to turn his face away but Derek follows, forcing him to stare into Sam's eyes.

"Daddy bought the vest for me," Derek says, catching Dean by the chin so he can't move his head. "My little sister-- she was healthy-- she couldn't go college cause Daddy wasn't ever going to pay off that vest. But it was worth it to them, see, because it meant they could pretend I wasn't sick. They didn't have to watch, didn't have to hear. They left me alone with my vest, do your treatments like a good boy. Be brave like a good boy. Suck it up like a good boy. Stay alive like a good boy. It made them sick, Dean. It made them sick to see me sick so we pretended, we pretended nothing was wrong."

Dean can't handle Derek's breath, tart with infection, he can hear himself starting to wheeze, feel his chest tightening again. He struggles to move somewhere, anywhere, just away but he's caught in Derek's grip and can't move an inch.

"And you," Derek continues. "Your brother and your daddy, they took care of you. Pounded your back. Your little brother watched you cough up your lungs, sat with you and your pain, took care of you when you were sick, watched you cough up all that gunk and he never complained, did he, Dean? He took care of you like family should. And what do you do? You bitch and complain, bitch and complain. Bitch and complain while I was on some highway somewhere dying alone."

Derek stands up to Sam's full height. He coughs, wipes blood from Sam's lips. "I'm nobody's hero anymore. I don't have to be brave for anyone. I don't have to act like some kind of fucking saint. I can be sick and scared and pissed off now. And guess what, Dean? I am. I'm scared to death and I feel like shit and I'm so angry. And I'm taking you with me because I can."

Under the weight of Sam's frozen hands Dean feels the energy drain from his muscles. Now it's not as if he can't breathe, but that he won't, his chest won't respond to his brain's commands. He can't feel his fingers anymore, his eyes are trying to droop shut. He looks at Sam and sees that the texture of his skin has changed, he looks grey, almost twinkling, kind of sandy like--

He's covered in salt.

"I'll come with you, okay?" he says desperately. "I'll come with you. Just let Sam go. Jesus Christ just let him go."

Derek stares at him coldly. "I'm gonna keep him. I've decided. I'm going to take him with me, see. When I cross over. He's gonna take care of me in the afterlife, and King and the Warden and Georgie and I? We're all gonna be best friends."

"You're a fucking moron, Derek," Dean finds himself roaring breathless and voiceless, "You don't have to have the illness in the afterlife, if you can let fucking go. This isn't for eternity. You don't take diseases with you unless you can't let go! You don't need a nurse, Derek. Just go. Just go and you won't be sick."

Derek smirks. His hands slide almost sensually up and over Dean's shoulders. He cups Dean's face, runs a hand through his hair, curls his fingers around the back of his neck.

"You're a good big brother, Dean," he says. "You really are. Even for a sniveling little 's why you keep holding on, holding on, holding on. Keep dragging that air in and out. So we'll do it the hard way, huh? We'll do it the hard way."

And then Dean feels Sam's thumbs shove into his throat. His already blurred vision goes instantly gray, his lungs vibrate in his chest, the skin of his face swells and tightens. He opens his mouth to call out to Sam but his tongue is swelling and spasming, bobbing over his throat like a drain plug. He tugs feebly at Sam's hands but the energy is being sucked from him like air.

He manages to say "Dekkkk" out loud and mouths the rest: "Wait. Please."

Derek rolls Sam's eyes and loosens his stranglehold just enough for Dean to suck in another breath. "What? Make it quick. I think I feel your brother's lungs collapsing."

"Just... before... wait..." Dean spits out with what's left of his voice. "Let me... give you quick pound, okay? It'll feel good, I promise. It'll feel good."

Derek studies him. He keeps his hands around Dean's neck, his thumbs still resting over his throat. "A pound?"

"Yeah. Manual PT. Like Sammy did for me. Like my Dad did for me. I want to do it for you, Derek. And then... and then we'll go."

"Nobody ever did that for me," Derek says. He lets go of Dean, sits back on his haunches. "Never."

" I'll do it for you, okay? I'll do it for you. Come on. Turn around."

Derek thinks on it a moment, eyeing him suspiciously. "Nobody ever did that for me," he repeats.

"Well I will. Come on. Come on, Derek. Turn around."

"You won't try anything stupid, will you? I'll just kill you instantly, Dean. I'm strong. I'll snap your neck. I'll make you throw up a lung."

"I won't do anything stupid, Derek. Just PT, okay? Just PT."

Derek nods, turns and kneels on the floor with his back to Dean. Dean slides his hand's over Sam's shoulders, squeezing them. Maybe to reassure him, if he's still in there. Maybe to say goodbye. He doesn't know. And then he begins to pound on Sam's back with cupped hands.

"I don't wanna die, Dean." Derek says. "I was just a kid. How could they put that on me? I don't wanna die. What if there's nothing up there?"

"There's something, okay? There's something there and it's... it's better than this."

Derek leans forward, letting out a wheezy moan of pleasure as Dean pounds a steady rhythm on Sam's shoulder blades. "The blood just kept coming and coming, Dean, and I couldn't breathe, and I was alone. Couldn't even scream. The blood just kept coming and coming and I was alone."

"I know, Derek. I know what's it's like." Dean can hear Sam's lungs growing more and more congested. Derek is coughing singular, explosive coughs that sound moist and gravely. As he pounds the salt is falling away from Sam's skin. They're running out of time.

"You're not alone now, okay?" Dean says, his voice high and desperate. He pounds a little faster. "I'm here, and you're not alone, you don't have to die alone, okay? I'm right here with you."

Sam's head dips forward then rights itself again, like he's dozing off. Dean can see his face from across the room, in the reflection of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Derek peers at him, childlike, skin gray and yellow and textured.

His eyelids flutter, his mouth goes slack.

It's working. Dean pounds faster.

"What's happening?" Derek says.

"You're leaving, Derek. I'm giving you want you want. You're not alone. I'm taking care of you. You're leaving."

Sam's eyes begin to roll. His head sways on his neck. "I'm scared. Goddamn it, Dean. I'm scared."

"It's okay. Right here with you, okay? Right here with you."

And then it happens very quickly. Sam's skin glows orange. There's another rush of arctic air, and it wraps itself around Dean and grows warm and heavy like a quilt. Sam's head rolls to his chest.

Then, with a long, rattling breath, Derek is gone

For a long, terrifying minute Sam is completely still, limp like a still-warm corpse. Dean gets down on the floor and holds him, rubs knuckles back and forth hard on his chest.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says in almost a whimper, "Come on. Please."

Sam gasps, jolts upright, his arms flailing. He moans something that doesn't make sense. It sounds like there's fluid collecting in the back of his throat. He chokes on it, leaning forward and spitting on the floor. "Dean... can't... hurt... can't..."

"Relax, Sammy." Dean catches his brother's wild arms, trapping both hands between his own. "Relax, remember? Slow deep breaths, just like you're always bitching at me, huh? Come on. Slow and deep. Please, Sammy."

Sam's head falls on Dean's shoulder. He hitches and coughs and sputters into Dean's neck and then, finally, he manages a breath.

:::

To be continued, because I'm apparently a lying liar. The next chapter will be the last.


	13. Chapter 13

**PART THIRTEEN**

Dean loses track of the days. The world outside may have disappeared, exploded, turned orange, he wouldn't know because nothing much exists beyond the motel door or even, really, the bed.

He tries to recall another time when Sam was really sick and can't drudge up a memory. Maybe it's because Dad downplayed it, maybe because it always paled in comparison to the chronic and terminal qualities of hisown illness. Maybe Sammy kept his distance, maybe he thought his childhood germs were dangerous.

Doesn't matter now. Even if Dean remembered it wouldn't soften the blow. He hadn't realize how it made him feel, that Sam was healthy, until Sam wasn't.

He won't say "safe" is how it made him feel. Safe wasn't the word. But it was something he had to cling to when everything else was going to shit. He could always tell himself: at least Sam's okay.

Well now Sam's not okay. Now he's a fucking furnace, sweat beads on his face faster than Dean can wipe it away. He talks a nonsensical delirium, he vomits, he expels mucus and drools blood, he cries because he doesn't understand what's happening.

Dean does everything Sam ever did for him and he does what he never allowed Sam to do. He gets up on the bed and wraps his arms around his brother and tells him over and over and over that everything is going to be alright, that he'll be well again soon.

He doesn't feel ill himself until Sam is unconscious. Now that Derek is gone, Dean's lungs are more open than they have been in years. But at night, or whenever Sam falls silent, the pain in his stomach borders on intolerable. He curls up, presses his forehead to his brother's shoulder and tries not to betray the pain with noise. He tries to breathe through it and tries to feel thankful that his lungs allow him to do at least that.

He thinks about that party, about partying himself sick so many years ago. He thinks about what he made Sam do for him that night.

He thinks about what he _always _makes Sam do for him. And that makes his gut hurt worse.

***

Everything burns.

He can breathe when his head rests on Dean's shoulder. He gets upset when his head isn't resting on Dean's shoulder. He can hear his own moaning when Dean isn't there and he can't stop himself.

Dean's hands pound his back. At first he tries to fight, he doesn't want to be comforted like this. Then he begins to cough. He coughs and great gobs of warm goo come up and out of his chest.

"Good," he hears Dean say from somewhere. "Good."

And this is what it's like for a long while, his head on Dean' shoulder and heat and coughing and Dean's hands, pounding, dabbing, brushing his hair from his eyes. He can't even begin to guess how long because he and time and everything have gone away. He doesn't know where he goes, just that he'll wake to Dean begging him to stop and he'll realize he's flailing, he'll wake to the sounds of his own groans and realize Dean is begging him to _shush_. Air knocks, trips, finagles its way up around over the barriers in his lungs. Waking up is like drowning, every single time.

Then time returns and he knows where he is, and what he is, and how he is, and maybe that makes everything worse. Now he can make sense of the heaviness in his chest, the needling pain in his lungs. He can think about what it means to not be able to breathe, what it means to feel exhausted. Before this he only a rudimentary understanding of either.

Dean has him propped up on pillows. Dean's cannula is around his face. His lashes are stuck together with guck. Even the saliva in his mouth is thick and obstructive.

"Wrong?" he wheezes.

"You have CF," Dean says, running his hand over Sam's forehead, and surely his brother must be joking but there isn't an ounce of humor in his voice. "You're getting better, though, Sammy. You just gotta keep breathing. Keep coughing."

"Trying," is all Sam can manage. He moves his head to one side, then the other.

It's just plain fucking shocking, how shitty he feels.

"Dying?" Sam croaks.

"No." Dean's rough hand squeezes his wrist. "You're fine. Just sick."

"S'like... some.. someone..."

"Like someone is sitting on your chest," Dean finishes. "Probably a fucking elephant. I know, Sam. Now quiet."

Then something almost painfully cold presses at his lower lip. He parts his teeth and the ice cube rushes over his slimy tongue and he sputters, just a little.

"Good," Dean says. "I'm gonna give you some medicine and then we're gonna cough again."

Sam fades in and out. After a while Dean removes the cannula and covers his face with a mask and foul medicine rushes his mouth, throat, lungs. He coughs, if only to expel the taste.

"Good, Sam." Hands pound his back. "Now huff. Just like I do."

"Tired," Sam moans. He doesn't mean to sound so pitiful. But it's true. He doesn't want to cough. He just wants to _breathe. _

"Tired," he repeats.

"I know, Sam. But you're doing so much better now and we gotta get everything up and out, okay? Huff."

Sam huffs, feels the crap shifting in his lungs, moving upward until it's caught in his throat.

The first time he spits it's a sense of relief. The third time all he can think about is how much it hurts. The sixth time he accidentally pukes. The tenth time he's crying again and begs to stop. But Dean's face has gone hard and blank and he says "keep coughing."

OOOO

After a while he's conscious more often than he isn't. He can't open his eyes but is always aware of Dean fluttering around him, taking his temperature, swiping ice chips across his lips.

Then seemingly out of nowhere he wakes up fully alert, with a rumbling in his stomach and a mouthful of cottony dryness.

"Fuck," is all he can think to say.

He feels Dean stir beside him, then a thermometer is shoved in his mouth. After a moment it beeps and slides back out and he hears Dean mutter "thank god."

"Sammy," he says, "Sam. Open your eyes. Look at me. Fever's gone."

Sam tries; his eyelashes are stuck together. Dean hops off the bed. He hears running water, then a warm cloth against his face.

"There," Dean says. "Open."

He does as he's told, blinking against the harsh morning light.

"How do you feel?"

Sam sighs. "Like shit."

"You sound good. Breathing good."

"Happened?"

"You almost fucking died, that's what happened."

The statement is so fucking loaded it makes Sam want to go back to where nothing makes sense. He closes his eyes, opens them again. "Is this. This what it's like?"

Dean smiles and pats Sam's knee, like he didn't hear. "You sore?"

"Dean."

"You can probably have something for pain now. Then we'll get you back on the neb, just to be safe."

"Is it?" Sam persists. "Is this what it's like for you? Tell me."

Dean shrinks a little, as if harassed. "No."

"Tell me"-- he pauses for a breath -- "the truth."

"This was bad, Sam."

"Meaning?"

Dean shrugs. "When I'm real sick, maybe. But not all the time, okay? Not what it's like all the time."

"Fucking terrible."

"Yeah it's not fun," Dean says dryly, "go back to sleep."

OOOO

He awakens to low unfamiliar humming, and turns his head to Dean sitting at the window, silhouetted by sunlight bleeding in through the blinds. His brother is using the vest and the vibrations make his hands shake as he takes his neb out of his mouth, raises the cup to cough and spit.

Seeing Dean that way reminds him of when they were younger, dredges up fear and anxiety and even an inexplicable stab of jealousy. He tells himself it's just the illness, the reason he wants to get up and tear the vest away from his brother and stuff it into a dumpster somewhere.

He sits up. Dean sees that he's awake and sets down his cup, turns off the vest. The thing is loud and the silence rushes the room like emptiness. "How you feeling?"

Sam feels like something beat him unconscious, took him by the ankles and swung him from wall to wall to wall to floor to ceiling. But compared to a day or two or three or eight or however long it's been, he feels like he could run a marathon.

"I need a shower," he says. "How are you?"

Dean fiddles with the Velcro of the vest. "Sit on the lip of the tub. Don't try to stand up."

Sam switches the concentrator off, removes the tube from his nose, and eases his legs over the side of the bed. He still aches everywhere. "Is something...?"

"Leave the door cracked so I can hear if you fall on your ass." Dean keeps his eyes on his hands. There's dried blood on the floor between his feet.

It all comes back to Sam, what happened, Derek entering his body, his veins freezing over before everything went black.

"Is he gone?"

"He's gone. Now in the damn shower. I can fucking smell you from here."

Sam wants details but Dean's right. He can smell himself, he's ominously sticky, he's pretty sure Dean wasn't able to get him to the bathroom at least once, and all of it combined makes his stomach lurch.

He's able to stand in the shower for about two minutes before his legs turn to mush and he has to sit down. The sensation gives him a blurred, timeless flash of memory-- Dean just home and still weak from some long, long hospital stay, sitting on the lip of the tub of whatever motel, dragging a washcloth lethargically over his skinny arms.

"What don't you just take a fuckin' bath?" Sam remembers saying.

"Baths are for pussies," Dean answered. "Get the fuck outta here."

"Dad told me to stay and make sure you're alright."

Dean had punched the water off then, even with his arms still painted in soap suds. He had wrapped a towel around himself and just sat there silently fuming, every knot of his spine pushing out of his back, until Sam had left him alone.

Sam hadn't understood it then but he sure as fuck understands it now. He finishes washing himself like it's a privilege, until he's panting, until he breaks a sweat. Getting dressed makes him dizzy, just lifting his arms feels like bench-pressing, and when he's done he sits on the toilet seat with his face in his hands and trembles with fatigue and frustration.

He comes out of the bathroom and pauses in the doorway to look Dean. He's taken Sam's spot on the bed, leaning back against the pillows. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed, one hand idly itching around the button of his G-tube.

Sam drops the wet towel he's still holding to the floor. He's been so wrapped up in his own misery-- he'd forgotten his brother's sick, too.

"You okay?" he says, sitting on the bed near Dean's knees.

"Fine."

"How many-- how many days has it been?"

"Dunno. Five. Six, maybe. I had to give the front desk your credit card."

"How'd..." Sam pauses to lick his lips, not sure if he wants to ask the question. "How'd you get rid of him?"

"Gave him what he really wanted," Dean replies. He's silent for a moment, then snorts a sad laugh. "Poor kid didn't even know what he wanted."

"What was it?"

"PT. He just... " Dean opens his eyes. Tears spill over his lashes. "He just wanted someone to look out for him."

"Hey," Sam says. "What's...?"

Dean shakes his head. "Just tired."

"Come on," Sam says. "I lived, okay? I'm alive and he's at rest and everything's gonna be fine."

His vision bursts with white light and he nearly falls off the bed; it takes him a moment to realize Dean has backhanded him.

"How the fuck could you do that?" Dean says, but he doesn't sound angry, his voice is quavering with tears. "I thought you were gonna die. I fucking _held _you and _rocked_ you cause I thought you were gonna die."

"It was the only way," Sam says. "He would have killed you."

"So fucking what?" Dean's voice starts out as a shout, trails off into a low almost-whisper, like he's too damn tired to be angry. "What the fuck has changed? I'm always dying anyway, aren't I?"

Sam scrubs hard at his face. "Dean--"

"I'm out of all sorts of meds," his brother interrupts, voice rising almost hysterically. "You have any idea how hard it is to find some of this shit? I broke into houses for all that shit. But it was the only way I could get you to cough, at first. Shit in your lungs was so thick I could of walked it like a fucking tightrope. You almost _died._"

"Dean--"

"What the fuck did you expect me to do?" Dean sits up. "What the fuck did you expect me to do if you died, Sam? You think Dad's really gonna let me find him? You think he's really gonna let me hunt with him? What the fuck were you thinking?"

Sam shrugs. "You're my brother."

"All that talk about me being selfish, trying to act like some fucking hero. And then you go and invite an angry ghost inside your body. For what? Tell me."

"What should I have done? Let the bastard kill you?"

"_Yes," _Dean shouts. "Yes, Sam. You should've said goodbye, you should've burned my fucking body and you should have gone back to your girlfriend and live your full goddamn happy fucking life."

"You don't mean that."

"The fuck I don't!"

"You have every right to be pissed, Dean," Sam says, as calmly as he can, which isn't hard because he feels ready to pass out again. "I was really sick and you were afraid I might die. Does that sound familiar?"

"It's not the same."

"How is it not the same?"

Dean shakes his head and scrubs at his face. "What do I have now, Sam? I have my car and an ancient shotgun and my fucking CF. But I'm still alive, right? So now you can go back to your girlfriend and you can do it without feeling guilty. So congratulations. Get your fuckin' shit together and I'll take you home."

"That's not what this--"

"Then what's it about? Tell me. According to you my two choices are acting suicidal or being an invalid, remember? It'll be a goddamn miracle if I make it to the other side of thirty, Sam, and you _never _let me forget it. So what about me is worth risking your life for? Tell me."

"I don't _care _how long." Sam says, "You know I think your life is worth more than that. You _know _that. I just want you to think about how I've been the last few days. Think about if I was like that all the time. How the hell would you feel?"

"_I'm not like that all the time,"_ Dean finds his screaming voice again. "Can't you fucking understand that? I get sick. And I'm fucking sorry you have to-- I didn't know how hard--"

Dean stops, pinches the bridge of his nose, and Sam gets ready for another outburst of rage, or maybe more tears.

"I understand now, okay?" Dean continues. "These past few days, takin' care of you. I was so fucking... I get it. It's fucking _terrifying._ And I owe you a big fucking thank you. But Sam?"

He looks at Sam, and waits.

"What?" Sam says after a moment.

Dean smiles, and then out of nowhere, he's laughing. "I have CF. It doesn't have me."

Sam can't stop it-- he smiles so wide his face hurts. "Dude. That did not just come out of your mouth."

For a blessed few seconds the tension in the room lifts, their shoulders are shaking with laughter.

Then it's over. The smile falls from Dean's face. He wrings at his hands, pushing white trails into his already pale skin.

"What you said the other day? You're right," he says. "I came to here wantin' you to do it for me. I was gonna rest up and I was gonna use the last of what I had to go off and get myself killed. That was the plan. You're right. But I'll take care of myself, best I can, okay? I can do both. I can take care of myself and I can find the thing that killed mom. I can do both."

Sam drops his eyes to the floor. _This is your last chance to change your mind_, he tells himself, but even as he's thinking it, he knows he's already decided.

"I guess we'll see," he says. "Cause I'm coming with you."

"The fuck you are. I'm taking you home."

"I left her," Sam swallows hard. "I left Jessica. I'm coming with you."

Dean's face darkens. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"It wasn't real. It wasn't... because it was over."

Dean looks like he might smack Sam again. "I'm not gonna have you-- I don't need your bullshit sense of responsibility, Sam. I don't need it."

"It's not about that, " Sam says, "not anymore."

"Then what the fuck is it about?"

"I wanna be here, while you're around. That's all. That's it."

Dean regards him suspiciously.

"You might not need my bullshit sense of responsibility," Sam adds. "But you need _me_. And I'm here."

Dean's eyebrows come together as if he's in pain. At first it looks like he might concede. But then he closes his eyes, shutting Sam out.

Sam throws his aching body down on the bed next to his brother, snagging one of the pillows and wedging it against the small of his back. They're both wheezing, Sam's like a lingering, high whine, Dean's hanging on the end of each exhale.

After a minute Dean pulls an inhaler from his pocket and hits it, passes it to Sam. "Breathe in when you push down on the thing-- don't just spray the shit in your mouth."

Sam does as he's told, then exhales.

"You gotta hold it longer than that. Do it again."

This time Sam holds it until Dean nods. He exhales, his head rushing from holding his breath so long.

"I'm coming with you," he says, one more time.

Dean sniffs. He replaces the cap on the inhaler. He puts it back in his pocket. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Sam feels like he should show brother he's serious by jumping up, gathering their things. But--

"Maybe... maybe we should nap first."

"First good idea you've had all week," Dean replies.

They lie in silence for a long while, until Sam is sure that Dean has fallen asleep, until he's blissfully close himself, and then--

"Sam," Dean's voice jerks him awake.

"Yeah."

"Thanks, for. You know."

Sam's only answer is a semi-affirmative sigh as he drifts to sleep. Because yes-- he knows.

OOOO

It's a day later and Sam's outside packing the car when his phone rings. He looks at the screen and almost drops the phone, his palms instantly sweat soaked, his knees-- which were finally starting to feel sturdy again-- going all rubbery.

"Jess?" He croaks.

"Sam?"

"Jess?"

Just the sound of her voice makes him ache all over. He blinks and tears fall down his face, salting his lips. "Jess."

"You sound terrible. Are you sick?"

Sam slams the trunk shut. "Yeah. I-- yeah. A cold. But I'm... what's...?"

"The cops-- they said call if I hear from you. But I don't think this counts as hearing from you, because I'm the one calling." She giggles uncomfortably. "They took that paper you wrote about _The Epistemology of the Closet. _Said it was evidence."

Sam can't help but smile a little. "They can keep it. Jess--"

"My grandma's barn was haunted," Jess interrupts. "One summer, every single one of her sows turned up dead. The vet said it was some kind of virus. But a virus-- it couldn't string them up from the ceiling like they were in a slaughterhouse."

Sam scrubs at his face, tries to breathe through the ache that's returned to his chest. "No," he says. "No, it couldn't."

"At night, if you listen hard enough, you can still hear them squealing."

"Jess. I'm so sorry. For everything."

"I'm transferring. To Columbia, maybe."

"Jess--"

"If you and Dean... if you guys... if Dean gets sick or something... call me sometimes, okay? Call me and let me know you're okay."

"Okay," Sam says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Okay. I will. I will. Jess? I love you."

"I believe you," Jess says, and then she hangs up.

Dean finds him a few minutes later, leaning against the Impala, the cell phone still clutched to his chest.

"What's up with the tears?" he says, sliding up beside Sam, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "She say you can't borrow her panties anymore?"

Sam laughs a barking laugh, spraying tears and snot all over the parking lot. "Come on. Let's hit the road."

"Where we headed?"

"Who cares," Sam says with shrug. "Find something to hunt? Find Dad? I don't care. Let's just go."

Dean removes his hand from Sam's shoulder. "You can't tell me you're okay with doing this. Out of nowhere."

"It's not out of nowhere," Sam says.

So he turns and gets in the car. He runs his hand over the Impala's dash, breathing in the smell of Dean and leather, the underlying scent of pills, aerosol.

After a moment his brother gets in beside him, flashes a champion smile that reminds Sam, right then, what he's looking at. Not a feeding tube, not a treatment schedule, not a set of failing lungs.

His big brother Dean.

OOOO

Why did he run?

Because Stanford's glossy brochure made him promises it couldn't keep. Because Jessica and normal and things less senseless, less frightening, more muted, more safe-- the brochure said all of that was waiting for him there.

Because he was selfish. Because he was a coward. Because he was brave enough to say goodbye. Because it was the only way he could control the disease. Because hunting was going to make Dean die faster. Because Dean couldn't escape but Sam could.

Why did he run?

Because running was a luxury.

Because he didn't love his brother enough.

Because he loved his brother too much.

Because maybe they only have five years together.

Maybe ten.

Maybe they have thirty years ahead of them. Maybe Sam will give himself carpel tunnel beating Dean on the back till their spines bend identically with age, gray hair curling around sagging, fleshy old ears.

Maybe Dean will die tomorrow.

Maybe Sam will follow him.

Maybe not.

It doesn't matter.

It never did.

What matters is that Sam will be around to find out.

::::

The End.

**ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS**

Thank you pixymisa, selecasharp (my own personal SamnDean), chiiyo86, oscared3 and neonchica for alpha reading, emotional support, research help, and hand-holding.

And an extra very very very special thank you Erin for helping with all things medical and being the most support and awesome alpha reader anyone could ever ask for.

Thank you readers, thank you commenters, thank you lurkers, thank you thank you thank you.

*BLOWS WET SLOPPY KISSES*

(And yes, there will be more fics in this 'verse.)


	14. Part Two: Because of the Amazons

HELLO EVERYONE!

Just wanted to let you know there is now a sequel to this fic, entitled "Because of the Amazons." Hope you check it out, hope you enjoy :D


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